


Deva Victrix: The Bard

by moonlighten, Nekoian



Series: Deva Victrix [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 52,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekoian/pseuds/Nekoian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the ancient tradition of the Bardic culture fades further and further into extinction, it seems as though the only thing to do is accept fate and let it happen...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Another day at the courthouse leaves Llewellyn feeling sleepy. The endless chattering of men and women long sapped his energy due to the uselessness of the things he'd forced himself to remember: another court case over something small, another strange law, another bid for increasing taxation.  
  
Llewellyn thinks he should stop going; nobody missed him on the days he waived his duties. He knows he should feel ashamed, however, for his master had never missed duties for as long as Llewellyn knew him.  
  
With a sigh he exits the gate, and the familiar note of the metal rubbing against itself, the heavy thud of the bar lock when he closes it makes him feel a little rejuvenated, for they signal relaxation.  
  
He cannot relax, though, as his eyes are instead drawn to the notice board where things like edicts and announcements are made. They coincide with his departure, as it aligns with the day's final decisions, so Llewellyn would normally ignore them, yet his eyes are fixed on the man in black velvet who pins a scroll to the board. Llewellyn startles when a hand rests on his shoulder.  
  
"Are you all right, Llewellyn?" Dylan asks, smiling, grip on the paper bag he's carrying shifting as he bobs his weight from one foot to the other. "You've been staring into space since I started calling you."  
  
"Have I?" Llewellyn's lips part slightly as though to apologise, leaving his mouth pursed with indecision. He looks back to the notice board. "I just don't remember anything today that marked the need for a public sign."  
  
"Maybe you overlooked it, I do that often." Dylan tugs at the material of Llewellyn's sleeve, coaxing him into moving towards the board. "I never read these things. I doubt anybody does."  
  
"I don't either," Llewellyn admits. "I suppose it's only natural since it's so dull."  
  
Dylan chuckles a fluttering laugh, like a flock of birds taking wing, then turns his attention to the notices. "I always used to love the penmanship on these, I practiced my writing sometimes just so it'd look as nice but it never..." Dylan's eyebrows rise in surprise, his thumb rising to his mouth, bitten by anxiety. "Did you know they were cancelling all the Brittonic festivals?"  
  
"Cancelling?" Llewellyn eyes over the thick black words, their scrollwork and bright colours almost distracting from the declaration. "No, I don't think they ever mentioned it." Llewellyn casts his mind far back, but a black nothingness is all that surfaces from the lake of his memory. "Maybe on one of the days I was absent, but even so…"  
  
"That seems so unfair. The children love the winter solstice and new year bonfires." Dylan sighs. "I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. I suppose we can do something else on Kissing Moon night."  
  
A pulsing pressure begins to build behind Llewellyn's ears, as hot as blue flame and maddening him till his teeth grind together and tears bead in his eyes. He takes a hold of the flyer, yanks it down, tearing its corners and blackening his fingertips from the almost dry ink. "You. Who told you to print this?" he demands to the back of the man in velvet.  
  
The red feather in the man's hat almost falls out as he turns in surprise and his eyes drop to the poster, swallowing hard. "The Judge, he said it was vital important." The man raises his hands and takes a step backwards as if to escape a terrifying creature. "He's making a public announcement about it tomorrow."  
  
Llewellyn tsks, ignores how Dylan takes a hold of his arm, almost crushing it as if he thinks Llewellyn might do damage to somebody or something if not restrained. "Fuck tomorrow. Bring him here."  
  
"He's busy with –"  
  
Llewellyn tosses the paper to the ground, spits on it, an impulse brought on from a long buried memory. He pulls his hand loose from Dylan's grip, drawing in a deep breath. "I am the bard of Deva, you'll do as I say."  
  
The man's lip quivers then with a nod he dashes through the gate, his hat falling off in the process.  
  
Dylan rests his hands on Llewellyn's shoulders. "Are you okay?" his voices shakes as he slips around to look into Llewellyn's face, he's visibly startled by what he sees. "You're too tense. Maybe you should go home. Get some sleep."  
  
"It's not fair," Llewellyn's whole body trembles, "the people of Deva are my people and they…" He feels white-hot tears streak down his face. "Nobody ever asks them what they want. Old Town is not a bad place yet they keep trampling on us like we're not even here."  
  
"That's—"  
  
"Llewellyn!" The judge's voice booms, causing Dylan to shuffle away and take a position at Llewellyn's side. "What's the meaning of this, interfering with official business. It's not your place to speak out about our decisions, simply to listen and—"  
  
"It's meant to be your place to do what's best for our people." Llewellyn feels the tears subside, the trembling stops and he becomes aware very distantly of a small crowd gathering to watch. "They pay their taxes and do their jobs, obey the rules of the Empire and put up with those in Highgate receiving the best of everything. Yet you feel you have the right to take away our festivals too? Do you really think I'll let that pass unchallenged?"  
  
"What's come over you all of a sudden?" The judge, red faced and stern, seems to notice the angry muttering the crowd breaks out in. He glares. "The Empire does not celebrate such barbaric things, so why should the good people of Deva?"  
  
"Empire be damned. We're Britons too, and while I'm the bard you'll listen to me. My word is the word of the bard, and I speak with the voice of Deva." Llewellyn advances, raises himself, straight and tall so he can see into the Judge's scared face. "You've allowed Old Town to be overwhelmed with poverty, our guards are worn thin and poorly trained, there has been murder, we are starving and the weak receive nothing but your scorn, yet, you mean to strip away the last scraps of joy these people have left? I will not stand for it; and neither will they." Llewellyn suddenly becomes aware of the soft thrumming pain in his throat that pushes each word out of him; "If you intend to light this powder keg then I suggest you do it now in front of this crowd, while I'm here to help them object!"  
  
The Judge glances sidelong into the crowd, a small gathering, but with faces that slowly fill with irritation and an unspoken agreement, it clearly frightens him, his eyes darkening as he leans closer to Llewellyn, close enough for the wine on his breath to hit Llewellyn's nose. "The governor will hear about this, you impudent little wretch."  
  
"Then bring him to me, and I'll tell him the same." Llewellyn turns away. "And he can finally address the people he supposedly cares for instead of hiding behind you and your notices and his fancy carriages." Llewellyn plucks a few chords of his harp. "That is, if you're brave enough to tell him you've made such a decision without his blessing."  
  
"How did you..." The Judge's hands close to furious fists. "Then have your festivals and damn you to hell."  
  
The judge leaves and Llewellyn smiles as the crowd mutter – in gratitude and wonder – at the sudden uprising.  
  
Llewellyn feels his head spin clear into dizziness, Dylan catches him when he almost topples. His groceries spill, yet Dylan doesn't seem to notice.  
  
"What just happened?" Dylan looks down to the poster then into Llewellyn's eyes, staring hard and full of curiosity. "I suddenly started to see your words, and they made me feel so warm and comforted, yet so angry I could burst. Like in the stories of the ancient bards, only real."  
  
"I'm not sure. I was just angry. I couldn't stop myself." Llewellyn's legs turn to nothing so he slips to the ground to sit and rest. "It felt like I had enough anger in my heart for the whole of Britannia and it poured out."  
  
Dylan nods yet does not claim to understand. "I never knew you had such confidence, and against the judge as well." Dylan quickly lifts his scattered goods and squats at Llewellyn's side. "Did you really mean what you said about the governor?"  
  
"Maybe. I'm not sure." Llewellyn closes his eyes and clutches his neck, the pain suddenly feels raw, as though he'd been talking for a whole lifetime without pause. "I suppose I might have to if the Judge decides to fetch him...Though I don't think the Governor would side with the court at all."  
  
"How's that?"  
  
"I feel it. I know they didn't ask his permission. They always want to make themselves favourable to the Emperor so they went behind his back." Llewellyn tiredly rests his head against Dylan's shoulder and enjoys the way Dylan caresses it, smoothing hair that's slipped loose from its tie.  
  
"I'm a little glad. Everybody enjoys the festivals so much and since we—" Dylan coughs and rises, holding out a hand, "How about you come have dinner with me? I've been missing human company since Alasdair is off investigating and Michael has been ill."  
  
Llewellyn nods, holding out his hand, letting Dylan drag him to his feet, "I'd love that."

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
Llewellyn tucks his hands into his sleeves to preserve the heat that has started to pulse there. He takes in the smells of the kitchen: a broth that bubbles, peeled potatoes, and a combination of diced carrots and onions. The heat soon pumps through his entire being so he slips the bards cloak off, choosing to start pouring hot water into the teapot.  
  
"I'm sorry none of our mugs are much good." Dylan sounds embarrassed as he takes a soft swipe at his watery eyes. "I doubt we'd buy new ones even if we only had one left."  
  
"Mine are no better." Llewellyn watches as Dylan moves onto slicing up the portion of meat they'd bought together – a slightly better cut thanks to their combined coins – feels a strange impoliteness, one that is compounded by the fact that standing idle and taking an active role are both equally off-putting.  
  
He settles for plucking up the bread and asking, "Shall I slice this up?" which inspires a grin from Dylan and a knife with dull teeth to be handed his way.  
  
"It's sort of nice to have somebody in the kitchen with me. It's less lonely."  
  
"I feel the same." Llewellyn wonders if the poor quality of the slices he creates is from the sickly state of the knife or his lack of experience at the task. He's more used to simply tearing chunks of it off as he needs. He's certain from a past memory of Dylan producing thin but elegant slices that it's likely his own ineptness; "I'm sorry I'm not much good even for slicing."  
  
Dylan peeks at his work, tries to hide his amused smirk, "It's an awkward knife to use," he says, "Michael will be happy to have a bigger slice than usual."  
  
"How is he feeling?" Llewellyn sets the bread on a little plate beside the chopping board, noticing that Dylan's trousers have begun to slip downwards, making the heavy curve of his arse more pronounced.  
  
Llewellyn rips his eyes away when Dylan looks at over, blowing a snarl of his hair out of his face, "He's full of snot and complaints but I think he'll live. His appetite is coming back but I'd rather he stay in bed to make sure."  
  
"It must be awful, being cooped up like that," Llewellyn muses. "I just hope it's not a dose of the lung."  
  
"Lung?"  
  
Llewellyn feels a his eyes betray him and studies his hands. "Fisherman's lung; it was a common sickness when I was little. I always got a bad cough when it got cold and damp."  
  
"I think Michael just has a bad cold."  
  
"I'm glad. I imagine since he's not near that damn river it's less likely."  
  
"The river?" Dylan's brows furrow and he nibbles the side of his thumb. "Is that why you sometimes get so ill? It seems so unhealthy."  
  
"It was a big problem back when more of a community lived down by the banks, it spread like a plague and—" Llewellyn bites his words down so hard he nearly chokes. "Well, once you get it you're more likely to get a bad dose in future."  
  
"Another reason not to let Michael near the river then." Dylan swipes his ingredients into his broth pot and makes a thoughtful noise. "Why does fisherman's lung sound so familiar? I'm sure I heard about it once."  
  
"It'd be pretty hard not to have." Llewellyn shrinks slightly. "It killed a lot of people one winter. It always made me so mad. Barely anybody could afford the medicine and nobody really cared about what happened to them."  
  
Dylan watches, silent in consideration. "I think I remember that from when we were children." He nips his lip so hard that it leaves a crater in his lip when he eventually releases it.  
  
"Would you like a little music tutoring while this cooks?"  
  
"Yes," Dylan blurts out, quickly clears his throat. "I've been practicing as much as I can but I'm all thumbs."  
  
"If you had it mastered already I'd be out of the job." Llewellyn laughs, letting out a relaxing sigh.  
  
"Never, you're a great bard," Dylan says, clutching up Llewellyn's hand, squeezing tight, as though to affirm this to himself.  
  
"I'm only as valuable as the people who listen to me." Llewellyn eases his hand away from Dylan's clutching it so their fingers twine together. "A great apothecary owner helps keep my audience healthy, so who am I really?"  
  
Dylan studies their hands, tightens his grip; his words wheeze and refuse to come out until he pushes out a softly spoken, "You're perfectly perfect and I—" He goes an uncomfortable shade of red and flinches as though injured. "Do you want some tea?"  
  
"It might need a little longer to brew." Llewellyn looks over at the pot then his eyes slip back to their hands, still linked together, "King Llewellyn and a stableboy known as Olaf once got into a fight, they settled their disagreement with an arm wrestle and the king was surprised to find that their hands perfectly locked together. Thinking this must be a mistake he locked hands with every person in his capital.  
  
"No matter what he tried, he found his hands no different to anybody else's despite his royal heritage and when he expressed this to his husband he was told that everybody can lock hands with a king, but only somebody truly special could hold it." Llewellyn grins, their hands slipping into a lover's grip like he's seen others do. "And that is why Llewellyn became known as great, because he knew that his hands were the same as a commoner."  
  
"I've never heard that story," Dylan mutters, his fingers loosen comfortably.  
  
"It's not very exciting so most people don't want to hear it. My master always said that those parts were pointless so not to tell them to make room for the real history. But I think maybe that's not the type of bard I should be."  
  
"You can be whatever sort of bard you want. I'll still listen."  
  
For a brief second Llewellyn wants to tell Dylan that holding hands would be enough, but his words don't weave themselves well outside the learned. Eventually their hands slip away from each other.  
  
"What if I lost my voice?"  
  
"I'd still listen." Dylan grins, scratching at his neck. "I mean, there's more than one way to listen. Does that even make sense?"  
  
"I think it does. It's a beautiful sentiment. Like an old story from the old bardic sagas."  
  
Their hands brush against each other and Dylan's shoulder brushes Llewellyn's, their noses almost crunching together as they move away from the conversation.  
  
Dylan's face is a pink flurry of clouds with a scattering of autumnal leaves cast across his face by a gust of summers dying breath, like a sunset that comes a little too early but cannot be looked away from because it's so fine. This close Llewellyn can see the every little detail of his eyes, wearily bloodshot and the same shade of green as spring buds.  
  
"Sorry, I was going to pour the tea." Llewellyn feels Dylan's hand clutching hard at his tunic, hears the parting of his lips and the soft exhale; the smell of the day's funk is pleasantly foul.  
  
"It can wait a little bit, we've not got much in the pot." Dylan's fingers loosen and he tilts slightly, smoothing the material of Llewellyn's tunic with a few brushes of his hand. "Not that I—I mean it doesn't matter really, it's basically just water regardless of how long I leave it, isn't it."  
  
"Something warm to drink is all that really matters," Llewellyn says, which seems to be enough to turn Dylan red, then begin to stutter and stammer, yet, makes no conscious effort to move himself away.  
  
"I suppose."  
  
"Your broth is simmering, you might want to turn it down." Llewellyn rocks his head to motion to the pot, his cheek brushing with Dylan's. Llewellyn wonders if it was miscalculation or a conscious effort. "It's spitting out the top."  
  
"It is." Dylan closes his eyes and inhales deeply, only opens them again when his ear pricks upwards, directing his eyes to the rattling of the pan. "Shit!" He whirls on his heel and almost upends his cooking in his rush to fix it.  
  
He lets out a hiss of pain and frowns at his hand. "I scalded my knuckle."  
  
"That's what happens when you punch the stew." Llewellyn pushes his hair behind his ear. "I can prepare a bandage if you tell me where they are and you can put something cold on there to ease the pain."  
  
Llewellyn wraps Dylan's hands carefully in some thin bandage, humming softly as he does. He turns when he hears footsteps and is greeted by a dishevelled looking Michael.  
  
Michael's hair is stuck out in all directions and his nose is bright red, he snorts as he breathes in and studies the bandage on Dylan's hand before frowning pointedly and coughing.  
  
"Am I interrupting something?" he asks with a voice like a bucket of grit.  
  
"No!" Dylan flushes, almost wrenching his hand free from Llewellyn's wrapping. "I just put my hand---Never you mind, why are you up?"  
  
"Thirsty." Michael coughs; it sounds dry and painful.  
  
"I'll pour you both some tea," Llewellyn says and rises to attend to the task.  
  
Michael watches his every step with something that might be tired suspicion before slipping over to Dylan and mumbling at him, punctuated with coughs and sniffles.  
  
"Are you staying again tonight?" Michael asks when the tea is given to him and he clutches it like he might a scurvy stricken sailor might a fresh lime. "Because I'm really contagious." A last nasty sounding cough and a rub of his eye prefaces his hoarse sounding, "Thank you."  
  
"I've not been invited," Llewellyn says.  
  
Michael looks to Dylan with a look of bafflement and confusion, which earns him only an embarrassed look of defeat along with a shrug. This inspires a sigh from Michael, though his ultimate feelings on the matter are unclear. He appears to have too much of a headache to think.  
  
"Alasdair isn't here so you can probably do what you like," he says before Dylan forcefully escorts him back to bed.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
Llewellyn barely has his hand on the court's main door when it's flung open. He finds himself face to face with a squirrelly looking young woman with an overly red face and a red velvet hat perched neatly on bright red braided hair.  
  
Her attire is like that of all court officials, though more muted and plain. A velvet jacket and trousers that puff around the waist to match the puff of the hat, its feather bobbing as she tilts her head to look at him.  
  
Her face is frowning and annoyed, yet she pinches her arms behind her back.  
  
"I was sent a summons to meet with the Judge." Llewellyn says, nodding to her to show some respect for her disrupted day, she was clearly waiting around to meet him.  
  
"You've been summoned to the governors office." She sighs. "Judge Alcamo will meet you there." The young woman's face twists at the mention of the man, seems to hold in a verbal vomit of repugnance. "I had noticed you weren't attending court recently."  
  
"I hoped to give the judge some time without me, to let things grow a little cooler." Llewellyn twists at his hair with a distracted finger. "I have been collecting my papers of the written summaries and committing what I need to memory. It seemed improper to march in here as though I had not spoken the way I did."  
  
"Should have stayed away." The woman, who he doesn't know the name of, nor she him, says. "To be honest, it was refreshing to see somebody give that old blowhard a talking to."  
  
"The next one shall be in your name." Llewellyn smiles and offers the smallest nod of appeasement, his hands curled into his sleeves.  
  
She grins and mimics him, with a fist pressed to her palm. A small gesture the court workers use to seal promises. Like a stamp being pushed into melted wax.  
  
His words appear to stick with her as they part ways.  
  
Llewellyn has to face the walk to the governor's offices. Which he does at his own pace, for the walk can be tiring.  
  
When he finally arrives, his feet have the slightest of aches; his mind had begun to ramble about the trouble he might have come into. Yet it all slips away to a soft and delicate calm as he stands in the main entrance, taking in the rich colours and Gallian styled pillars.  
  
A painting hung on the wall of a man in a luxurious Gallian blue robe stares, half smiling, out at a world that he cannot see. Next to him, a strange thin-faced dog with long angel hair holds a dead bird in its jaws.  
  
The man has a primitive looking gun under the crook of his arm; a long, filigreed thing with a conical barrel.  
  
"Are you the bard His Highness is expecting?" A man says with an eye that seems to have no need of an answer, for he's obviously already taken in the attire. "If you'll kindly come with me."  
  
Llewellyn follows, choosing not to speak, but to observe the colour of the carpets, the way the man walks – in a very straight and precise motion that seems strange and regimental – before arriving at a door.  
  
He waits outside as he's told, he studies the ceiling. Parchment white with intricate golden flowers – roses – painted in the corners.  
  
When he finally enters he finds the judge – who stands out; for he's wearing his finest coat – while a man sits at a desk with cupped hands and an expression of boredom that isn't hidden even by the long golden curls of his hair.  
  
Alasdair pales at the sight of him, but any deflation he had is quickly straightened and his mouth moves almost silently. Whatever he says catching the governors attention and interest.  
  
"Your Highness." The judge bows much deeper than a man of that age should be able to. "I humbly apologise for taking time out of your day to deal with this commoner, but as I explained he has shown disrespect to the court and, by proxy, to you, yourself, and the empire."  
  
Llewellyn looks impassively toward the governor and waits to be addressed.  
  
The governor studies him, his hand toying with a pen. "It is common practice for all subjects to bow."  
  
Llewellyn nods his understanding – for he decides he must look dim-witted or guilty in his silence – considers his response; opening his mouth only when his words come to him. "I politely refuse to bow."  
  
The governor's eyebrows shoot up, his eyes widen but anything he was about to say becomes lost when the Judge opens his instead.  
  
"You see what I mean, this man, this _bard_ , has no respect for the laws of this empire." The judge's mouth might be pressed to aggressive jowls, though Llewellyn cannot see them when he looks. "He has disrupted my declarations, publicly, and humiliated me in front of our good people."  
  
"Why do you not bow?" The governor asks, eyes hard and almost steel-like.  
  
"A bard is not permitted to bow to anyone but an elder bard. For it is our job to see and hear everything. Commit everything to memory. That law has never been changed." Llewellyn closes his eyes and takes a breath. "No bard has ever bowed to a king, I do not intend to break that tradition."  
  
The governor looking staggered by this, stands, taking a few notes from his desk drawer, "Is that correct M. Jansen?"  
  
"It is, Your Highness. The bardic tradition has never had that right taken away."  
  
"Then I suppose you need not bow," the governor says with a held in laugh. "However, I would have expected a lawman in my town to know such information before throwing around accusations."  
  
The Judge makes an angry hiss under his breath and straightens himself slightly. "That being said, Your Highness, I have serious complaints. This man has committed treason, it is in my loyalty to the empire that I cannot let such a thing go unpunished."  
  
"May I ask, what exactly is it you do, Mr…"  
  
"Walsh, Llewellyn Walsh." Llewellyn says quietly. "The bards recall history. We remember all that is worth remembering and celebrate our countries rich tapestry of culture and lore."  
  
"And what crimes could such a man commit in this city?"  
  
"Obstruction of law. A serious crime." The Judge glares in Llewellyn direction, "We had a bill posted and he ripped the paper down from the board. He and I exchanged words. He was abusive and almost had a mob set upon me!"  
  
The governor looks Llewellyn over; disbelief quickly sets in. "Well now, standing in the way of any laws made is certainly a crime. Did you act so brashly, Mr Walsh?"  
  
"I did."  
  
"You see, Your Highness, he admits it!"  
  
The governor looks quickly to Alasdair, so quickly that it could easily be missed and Alasdair responds with a minute shake of his head.  
  
"I may clarify my actions, Your Highness," Llewellyn says, still softly. "If you'd kindly ask the judge what bill it was he had posted that I took exception to."  
  
The governor turns expectantly towards the Judge and silently demands an answer.  
  
"That hardly matters, if a man attempts to disrupt the laws you have decreed then he has committed treason. I would demand that the bard be stripped of his title and removed from my courthouse immediately. He's a bad influence."  
  
"It would seem the judge is unwilling to answer my question." The Governor steps closer until Llewellyn can pick out the thin line of his eyebrows, high cheek bones and soft bruising under the eyes that suggest tiredness. "Would you be so kind as to enlighten me, Mr Walsh?"  
  
"The bill had listed a number of holidays to be stripped from our Brittonic calendar. Those holidays, such as the upcoming moon festival, are of high importance to your people and their happiness within the town." Llewellyn nods. "Disrupting them would have inspired nothing but anger, fanned the flames of hostility towards yourself."  
  
"They were, however, perfectly legal changes to our calendar! The empire does not celebrate these vile heathen holidays, so why should we, an Imperial city, revel in such debauchery."  
  
The governor bites on his lip and his brows dip very slightly.  
  
Llewellyn clears his throat and strums on his harp absent mindedly. "May ask a question of His Highness?" He takes in Alasdairs blank expression and waits for the look of acknowledgement which comes with a small nod of the governor's fine head. "I inspect every bill that comes through, each one signed by your hand, yet I do not recall ever seeing such a bill allowing for the changing of the calender. If I could ask, did you ever sign such a thing?"  
  
The governor looks over to the man, M. Jansen, who takes no time in shaking his head. "Such a bill never came to me," he says as though suddenly remembering for himself, "Which begs the question, how was our towns bard able to rip down and protest against a bill that should never have existed in the first place?"  
  
The judge pales immediately. "The bill was passed through our office. It seemed unimportant at the time, Your Highness."  
  
"Corporal, would the town have reacted badly to having their public holidays removed?"  
  
"Aye, Your Highness," Alasdair says firmly. "Most certainly."  
  
"Then I don't see how it can be considered unimportant." The governor turns on the judge with a whirl. "To attempt to pass a law that could inspire a riot without my say so sounds like treason, Mr Alcamo, and you claim I had signed off on it."  
  
"I merely wished to do what was right by the empire, as I had imagined you would wish, Your Highness."  
  
"You will not pass anything without my direct approval. What is best for Deva is not always going to be best for the empire. These things take time." The governor turns his back. "Attempting to rip the bardic traditions out of Deva on the back of your own disrespect is highly contemptible. I recommend you get out of my sight before I decide to levy heavier punishments than a fine."  
  
The judge bows deeply. "Thank you, Your Highness."  
  
"Everything that goes on in that court will now be communicated directly to me and investigated by my own people." A humourless breath in. "You may now leave."  
  
The judge manages to slither out of the room while bowing and muttering his respects and apologies.  
  
Llewellyn takes that as a sign that his presence is no longer required, decides to respectfully and silently leave the way he came.  
  
"If you'd hold on, Bard," The governor waves M. Jansen away – he's gone practically before the motion begins – and he steps closer' much closer than he had before. "I would like you to personally bring reports of the court back to me, as you seem to have a memory for it."  
  
He then turns to Alasdair and turns into something oddly casual, "So is this the same Llewellyn you mentioned before?"  
  
"Aye, that's the same one." Alasdair lets out a heavy breath that he seems to have been holding in.  
  
"He's very pretty," the Governor says with a grin. "I can see why— Ahem, Mr Walsh, would you kindly stay for a while? I'd like to have a talk with you."  
  
Llewellyn almost shakes his head, but quickly submits himself and agrees, if only to avoid the trouble he managed to get himself out of. "If it won't hinder your work then I'm at your disposal, like all court hands."  
  
"I like this one," the Governor says with a clap of his hands

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
_Pretty_. _Pretty_? _Pretty_!  
  
Alasdair works the word round and around in his head, trying to transpose it over the bard, but he can't seem to make fit properly from any angle.  
  
He does have the sort of delicate features that a moonstruck Dylan once described as 'elfin', when his tongue had been lubricated by enough whisky that it was flapping even more freely than usual, but Alasdair would sooner call them 'consumptive'. His brown bard's robes are worn down to the weave at his elbows, liberally patched elsewhere, and hang like sacking from his narrow shoulders. He's a skinny wee thing, not an ounce of spare flesh on his bones, and Alasdair could doubtless snap him over his knee like a twig if the need were to arise.  
  
Such considerations had seemed purely academic in the past, because, whilst Alasdair does size up as an opponent everyone he meets just in case he ever has to confront them in a professional capacity, the bard has always seem to be a mild little mouse of a man who would scurry away and hide at the first sign of confrontation.  
  
If he is a mouse, though, he's clearly one who's not afraid to use his teeth and claws in a tight corner. The judge had certainly looked as though he'd been thoroughly savaged when he slinked out of the prince's office.  
  
Alasdair had been impressed by how he'd comported himself, and how he'd stood up for the people of Deva at the courthouse. Maybe the prince was, too, and that was what had made him sit up and take notice, because the bard doesn't seem the type to turn his head otherwise.  
  
Of course, Alasdair has been wrong about his tastes in the past, and could be again. Perhaps they're simply too eclectic to conform to any rules that can be easily deduced, and it's a waste of both Alasdair's time and mental energy to try and look for a pattern in them.  
  
"We'll talk in the green drawing room," the prince says, with an expansive smile which is as stiffly artificial as most he doles out, albeit slightly more welcoming than the majority of his repertoire. "If you'd like to come with me, Mr Walsh."  
  
The prince wheels around and sets off at such a rapid clip that the bard has to break into a trot if he has any hope of keeping abreast with him, his long tail of hair bouncing and flicking behind him just like a horse's would do at the same pace. Alasdair trails them at the respectful two strides of distance that is proper for a personal guard, just in case the bard decides to go tattling to Dylan about how well he's performing his work.  
  
At such a remove, it's difficult to follow their conversation, but judging by what he _can_ hear, he's not missing a great deal. Even if hadn't been trained to be a governor, per se, the prince had definitely had the accepted script for 'liege lord interacting with his peons' drilled into his head at some point, because he rattles off all the predictable questions with practised ease.  
  
'Have you been a bard long?'; 'Do you enjoy your work?'; on and tediously on as they make their way through a labyrinthine twist of corridors and stairways. The bard's answers are so wheezy with shortened breath that they're unintelligible, but doubtless equally asinine.  
  
Eventually, they fetch up in a wing of the palace that Alasdair hadn't known existed, never mind set foot in before. The air is stale, as though it has not been stirred by passing bodies for quite some time, and smells of cobwebs and damp. There are several hulking pieces of furniture arranged along the hallway they step into, but their exact shape and purpose is disguised by the heavy dustsheets draped over them.  
  
It appears as if the entire place has been forgotten about.  
  
The prince opens the closest door with a unnecessarily dramatic flourish, and then urges Alasdair and the bard to precede him into the room beyond whilst he holds it open. Alasdair tries to dutifully hang back, but the prince refuses to budge. They trade an increasingly forceful series of 'After you, sir', 'No, after you, Corporal; I insist's back and forth which escalate to the point that they're almost on the verge of shouting at each other before Alasdair finally capitulates, and only then because he can see no other way to end their impasse aside from physically hurling the prince ahead of him.  
  
Given the neglected state of the hallway outside, Alasdair had been expecting the green drawing room to be a dark, dingy place, avoided because it was too disagreeable to pass time in, but he is pleasantly surprised.  
  
The two enormous leaded windows set in its longest side not only let in bright streamers of the late afternoon sun, but also provide a beautiful frame for the neatly trimmed lawn and walled orchard outside. With the forest green wallpaper surrounding them, and the floral carpet below, the room could almost be an extension of the gardens itself.  
  
Beneath the windows sit two long sofas, their frames plainly carved in dark wood, but they're just as luxuriously upholstered and lovingly polished as any others in the palace. In front of them is a low table, and to their sides, wrought iron, free-standing lamps with green and gold stained glass shades. A large cabinet filled with intricate confectionaries of spun glassware and delicately painted china covers the wall opposite the door, and across from the sofas, a broad mahogany desk dominates the space.  
  
There is only one painting hung, and it is beneath this the bard has come to a halt, staring up at it with wide, unblinking eyes. Alasdair finds his own steps unwittingly slow as draws near it, as the man enshrined within its gilded frame is certainly an arresting sight.

Since moving into the palace, Alasdair can't turn a corner without being glared at disapprovingly by some long-dead oil-paint Bonnefoy or Vargas, and so has become an unwilling student of the Gallian and Roman style of portraiture. All of the prince's other illustrious ancestors are pictured either admiring idyllic vistas of pastoral tranquillity or seemingly taking a breather during the midst of battle, depending on their martial bent; all are clothed in the traditional robes of Roman senators in ancient times, no matter what their involvement in the political process might have been; and all are accompanied by an animal of some sort – dogs, horses and eagles predominate – presumably to add a little movement and interest to what would otherwise be a fairly staid scene.  
  
This man, however, stands proud and alone at parade rest against a grey, featureless backdrop. He is dressed in the uniform of an Imperial General, but the plumes on the helmet tucked under his arm are Gallian blue, as is the single gem on the pommel of the sword sheathed at his right hip, and the inlays on the butt of the pistol holstered at his left.    
  
His golden hair is cropped close in the Roman style, his eyes a bright, piercing blue, and the expression on his long, sharp-nosed face is pure contempt for anyone who might have stopped for a moment to view him instead of doing something more productive with their time.  
  
"My father," the prince says from the doorway, his voice carefully expressionless. "Very striking, is he not."  
  
Even though Alasdair turns towards him quickly enough to catch him unprepared, the prince's face reveals itself to be a perfect blank, too. If he feels any discomfort from seeing his tormentor's form, he betrays none of it.  
  
Alasdair can't understand why he brought the painting to Deva at all, never mind put it out on display instead of burning it. He feels almost overwhelmingly compelled to use it for darts practice himself, and he's never even met the man.  
  
"He makes a fine guard dog, too," the prince continues. "We're sure not to be disturbed with him watching over us." He gestures to one of the sofas. "Please take a seat, Mr Walsh. Would you care for some tea?"  
  
The bard doesn't have time to finish opening his mouth before the prince answers for him with, "Of course you would. Conversation's thirsty work, after all. I'll... Oh!" The prince lifts a hand to his brow, miming forgetfulness, and unconvincingly so, to Alasdair's eye. "I forgot that this wing hasn't been fitted with bell pulls yet. I'll have to go and track down one of the servants myself."  
  
A twitch of his eyebrow and crook of his fingers bids Alasdair to follow him, which Alasdair does as soon as he's sure that the bard's safely seated himself as per directions instead of nosing around the prince's belongings.  
  
When he steps out into the hallway, the prince catches hold of his sleeve, drags him into an empty room nearby, and then eases the door closed behind them.  
  
"So that's your brother's _innamorato_ ," he says, giving Alasdair the mischievous grin of a schoolboy skiving off his lessons.  
  
The Low Imperial term sounds far too fancy for whatever the hell it is Dylan and the bard are to each other, and it makes Alasdair snort in amusement. "I wouldn't call him that," he says. "They just awkwardly dance about making doe eyes at each other, and Dyl writes these awful soppy poems about him."  
  
The prince sighs dejectedly. "You don't have a romantic bone in your body, do you, Aly?"  
  
Somehow, he makes it sound like an insult, and Alasdair's pride thus insists he defend himself against the accusation. "My heart's not made of fucking stone, Francis. I'm sure I've got at least one. Admittedly, it is probably just a phalange or something."  
  
"Ah, that's not the worst place for such a thing to be," the prince says, his eyebrows dipping and rising in a complicated dance of suggestion that Alasdair resolutely ignores.  
  
"I just don't see what's so romantic about my brother pining away for someone he's convinced himself he can't be with. He won't let himself go forward, can't go back, so he's just stuck in the middle, going nowhere. Running and running just to stay in the same place, and fretting himself sick over it all the while," Alasdair says, shaking his head. "Doesn't seem like a healthy way to live, to me."  
  
"Maybe not healthy, but sometimes these things are beyond one's control," the prince says, casting his gaze towards the skirting board, which he seems to find inordinately fascinating given the avidity of his stare. "The heart can be loyal beyond both wisdom and good sense, I fear."  
  
"Well, it's definitely got nothing to do with good sense in Dyl's case."  
  
"I take it you don't approve of his choice in potential partner, then?"  
  
"I've got nothing against the bard. I don't really know that much about him, all told, but he seems a decent enough bloke, and him and Dyl are about as soft as each other, so I'm sure they'd get on well enough," Alasdair says. "I just meant that there's no reason for him to be denying himself the way he is, but he's as bone-headed when it comes to courting as Art is."  
  
"You've mentioned that before," the prince's eyes flicker up and meet Alasdair's for an instant before falling back to the skirting board again. "What's stopping them both from pursuing a courtship?"  
  
"They both think they're too poor for it, which is bloody ridiculous, if you ask me."  
  
"Is courtship a particularly expensive process, then?" the prince asks.  
  
"Naw, not if you don't want it to be" Alasdair says. "As I understand it, there's all sorts of gifts you have to buy, and rituals you have to perform, but they don't have to be extravagant to be fitting, you ken?  
  
"It's more being married they don't think they can afford. Dyl doesn't make enough in the shop to support himself, never mind any one else, and the bard scrapes by on coppers and good will, as far as I can tell. He wouldn't want to rely on me to plug in the gaps anymore if he was a married man, so I guess he's holding off until he can find a way of making a bit more money himself.  
  
"Whereas Art's just being ridiculous, because Gabs would marry him tomorrow without a copper to his name. He just thinks he should be able to offer her more, even though she doesn't need the coin and doesn't want it, either."  
  
The prince nods vaguely, and then says, "So, these gifts and rituals...?" as though he hadn't heard a word Alasdair had said since then.  
  
"I've told you, I don't fucking know what they are," Alasdair snaps, annoyed at having been so blatantly ignored. "If you're that interested, ask the bard. I'm pretty sure they get taught about all that crap."  
  
"Maybe I will," the prince says, sounding thoughtful.  
  
"He likely won't tell you anything, though, seeing as how you're not Brittonic. It's not something we go round blabbing to outsiders about."  
  
"What if I wanted to start courting a Briton? I'd have to learn these things then, wouldn't I?"  
  
"Aye, but there isn't anyone, is there?"  
  
The prince takes a short, sharp breath in and then sighs out, "No. But the bard doesn't have to know that, does he?" His impish smile returns. "Perhaps he would respond more favourably to my questions if he thought they were of personal interest instead of simple academic curiosity."  
  
Alasdair should protest the use of such underhanded tactics, and vow to protect his country's secret traditions at all costs, but he's years past his adolescence's deliberate apathy about the subject, and can now admit that he might have some academic curiosity about the practice of courtship himself.  
  
Besides, governorship is a life-long posting, which makes the prince practically Brittonic by adoption. Unless he does have a fine Gallian lady waiting in the wings to make good on their betrothal, then if he does want to marry some day in his new homeland, chances are he'll have to know to court his intended.  
  
"Your secret's safe with me," he says. "Ask away."  
  
"Shall we shake to seal the conspiracy?" the prince says slyly, offering Alasdair his hand. He chuckles when Alasdair takes hold of it, clearly amused by his own overly dramatic behaviour, and then adds in a more serious tone, "There are so many questions I want to ask him, and not all of them about courtship. I've heard tell that the bards know more of the history of this land than has ever been set to paper, more of its lore, its songs –"  
  
Alasdair groans, quickly dropping the prince's hand and taking a hurried step back from him, in the same way he might retreat from an unexploded shell. "Hells, don't mention singing to him."  
  
"Whyever not?" the prince says, eyes rounding in confusion.  
  
"Have you ever _heard_ a bardic song?"  
  
"A few snatches of them here and there, during a festival I visited in town." The prince shrugs. "I thought they sounded delightful."  
  
"Aye, they do at first. But then they _don't_ stop. It's nothing but dewy-eyed warbling about dead kings for fucking _hours_ , and not so much as a single chorus to break the monotony," Alasdair says, shuddering. "Look, Francis, if you want my advice, run the second he starts reaching for that damn harp of his. Co-conspirator or not, I certainly intend to."

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
The trip it takes the Prince to fetch his tea takes longer than Llewellyn expected, the minutes crawling by as heavily as the clouds Llewellyn watches slipping past the window. From here he can see various gardeners toing and froing in the orchard, kneeling over plants and bushes. From there Llewellyn's eyes trace the floral carpet, a beautiful deep green – almost Hibernian but a little less vivid – that sets the various pinks, deep reds, blues and purples off, making each flower pop out from the stylised twisting vines.  
  
The seat is soft – softer than any he recalls ever sitting on – he runs his hand over the fabric with appreciation. Even the wood feels soft, varnished to a pristine smoothness.  
  
Llewellyn had thought the fabric seats in the courthouse to be the finest in the land before.  
  
The enjoyment is knocked out of him the instant his eyes meet the image of the King of Gallia, making something in his gut twist. There are surely images of the man in other places – his image adorns the main courtroom – yet here his presence is physically menacing.  
  
He forces himself to look to the rest of the room, drinking in everything he can before looking to the door. The risk of being left and forgotten does flare, however, a strong anxiety replaces it, for he had imagined himself to have committed some unknown wrong, received some punishment or imprisonment.  
  
There are stories about those who displease the empire.  
  
Llewellyn sighs, carefully takes a hold of his harp, closes his eyes and begins to pluck out the chords of the Songthrush tune. It's a song that he's always thought brought warmth and joy to any area it was played in.  
  
It fills the room, each note seeming to linger in this immaculate place, as though it was in dire need of the positive energy.  
  
He becomes aware of the governor only when he opens his eyes, his expression one of practiced neutrality, betrayed by upturned lips and a dewy warmth.  
  
Behind him Alasdair sets a tray on the desk, then, proceeds to lift one of the little cups up and look at it disapprovingly. The handle seems not to fit around his fingers at all.  
  
"I apologise for keeping you waiting." The Governor motions for Llewellyn not to move when he gets ready to politely stand. "You can never find a soul when you need them." He walks to the sofa and sits down. "May I ask what tune you were playing?"  
  
"Songthrush, Your Highness," Llewellyn recites. "The song of Lady Sian."  
  
The governor gives an exaggerated show of enthusiasm that hides his lack of interest. "How interesting. A very pretty tune, I must say."  
  
Llewellyn sets his harp on his lap and takes the Governor in, studying with care the way his expression shifts. He immediately turns it all on Alasdair when he approaches with the tray and offers up a cup.  
  
Once Llewellyn has taken his, Alasdair quietly takes a place beside the sofa, yet, doesn't look quite alert enough for Llewellyn to say he's guarding anything, possibly because the whole building is suitably protected.  
  
"Am I in some sort of trouble, Your Highness?" Llewellyn asks without a thought for caution. "I meant no disrespect in—"  
  
"Trouble? You?" The governor laughs, exaggerating his pleasure at the thought. "I was simply hoping to have a friendly chat, pick your brains a little. I've been informed that the Brittonic bards are highly knowledgeable about all aspects of this country."  
  
"Perhaps." Llewellyn is reluctant to say that he's highly knowledgeable in anything. For his information has always seemed more useless and tedious than actually helpful.  
  
His doubtful tone and lingering silence seems to draw out too long, for the Governor clears his throat, places a hand on Llewellyn's shoulder and says, "So, what do you think of the room?"  
  
"It's beautiful." Llewellyn tries to sound genuinely optimistic about the whole thing, for although the room is certainly a gorgeous one, he feels more a strange bitterness and a strong sense of loneliness scurrying underneath the weave of soft carpets.  
  
"You reside in the hall that sits atop the hill in Old Town, correct?"  
  
"Yes, Your Highness."  
  
"We do not have such halls in Gallia, could you tell me what its purpose is?"  
  
"The Bard's Hall was once used as a shelter for ambassadors and emissaries to the palace, as well as a gathering place for academics. There was always room for passing travellers who could not afford an inn, although it's little more than a crumbling ruin now." Llewellyn can't help plucking out a few chords on his harp. "It was once part of the royal buildings, but it was turned over to the court some years ago. After my master passed away."  
  
"I see." The governor nods as though finding this information riveting; his façade, although convincing enough in a way, is clearly an act; one Llewellyn isn't sure what to do with. "Perhaps I shall visit it."  
  
"It's very cold and depressing, Your Highness. I can't imagine it would be very comfortable for you."  
  
Something about that make Alasdair bark with laughter; he immediately muffles it and clears his throat. The outburst inspires a look of wide-eyed shock on the governor's face.  
  
"You're a very honest fellow," is all the Prince says, collecting himself in a blink. "Now, back to what we discussed in my office, regarding the Moon festival. I'd like to know more about that. If you'd be so kind."  
  
"The Brittonic moon festival is an annual celebration of the half year. It is commonly named the Kissing Moon festival. Many people declare their love on that day, sealing it with a kiss. It's a week after the Roman celebration of lights celebrated in Roma. The whole of Old Town comes together for a night of dancing, sharing in festival foods like Moon Bread and the selling of small tokens such as cloth dolls, carved wooden spoons and other luxuries."  
  
The governor is leaning forward slightly, his interest seemingly piqued. "It sounds delightful." He taps his mouth with his finger and thinks for a while in silence.  
  
"It reflects the love between the sun and the moon, two lovers who perished and became symbols of the day and night. Always looking toward one another yet only touching on an eclipse, which happens only once every hundred years." This information seems to come as a surprise to both Alasdair and the governor. "The next one is happening two years from now, according to the records."  
  
"And lovers can seal their love with a kiss?" The governor says as though he hadn't heard anything else on the matter. "I suppose that would lead into this courtship ritual I've heard so much about."  
  
"It can, if a couple decide to take that step."  
  
"May I ask what that particular ritual entails? I've been in Deva for a dreadfully long time and been unable to discern it."  
  
"I'm sorry, Your Highness, that information is something I only share with Britons who require it. You're Gallian, and that particular tradition does not—"  
  
The Prince lays a hand sorrowfully on Llewellyn's shoulder and frowns, "Yes I understand that, but you see, I have a certain someone I may wish to marry someday, yet, they are a devout Briton and would refuse me if I did not adhere strictly to the courtship."  
  
Llewellyn looks to the hand, frowning at it, "You're lying."  
  
The governor withdraws his hand as though Llewellyn had just bitten it, he looks aghast. "I can assure you that—"  
  
"I watch people for a living, Your Highness. I'm not easily fooled." Llewellyn makes his displeasure at the lie evident but he draws in a breath, allows his mind to clear, thinking carefully on it. Considering that the governor's posting to Britannia will likely last for the rest of his life, he's practically a Briton himself now. It's not the decision his master would have come to but Llewellyn thinks perhaps it is the correct one, regardless, "but it is my duty to educate a Brittonic citizen, and considering your title, I can only assume you'll be here for some extended period."  
  
The governor nods, the uncomfortable flush of getting caught in a lie still present on his face.  
  
"Courtship is a year long affair, starting with a consensual decision between the parties involved. To force another into it is a crime. Each month certain tasks are met, such as the weaving of a bracelet from flowers, the shared meal of two families, cake day and gifting days. As well as the annual lovers celebration held in Spring." Llewellyn places his hands on his lap and nips at his lip. "The exact process is much too intricate to go into in real depth."  
  
"A flower bracelet?" Alasdair asks without thinking, "Wouldn't it just fall apart?"  
  
"The petals represent the beauty of true love, the woven stems represent the lives that are coming together, and the inevitable falling apart of it represents the fragility of life, and a promise to share in all things, even if they are bad." Llewellyn draws in a breath, exhaling slowly. "Although some who are better off use jewellery, the meaning remains the same. The flowers are eventually replaced with courting rings which can be made of any material pliable enough to form one."  
  
"The courtship can be called off at any time, of course, and a great many Britons forgo it entirely. Celebrating only the days they desire."  
  
"I see." The governor crosses his arms and muses on this. "And many people begin this process at the Moon festival?" he says, more to himself than Llewellyn.  
  
"It is a popular time for engagements and courting." Llewellyn feels a warmth drift onto his face. "Most couples have been together a long enough time to merely make their intent official on the day."  
  
The governor's eyes flash with mischief. "I can't help but wonder if you yourself are attending the festival with somebody."  
  
Llewellyn shrinks and wrings his hands tight, "I did ask a certain someone, though only because we're very good friends and I wished to take part instead of merely watching. As I was taught to stay on the side-lines."  
  
The governor grins."A rule breaker. I'm impressed."

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
Llewellyn is halfway through his second cup of tea by now, drunk slowly in a bid to take as little as possible. Answering all manner of questions, he finds that they all loop back towards courting, each time the thread thought dropped it gets speedily snatched up into the weave again.  
  
"A cake made from petals and cream?"  
  
"The petals are sweetened in a fine sugar, it's said to have a light floral taste."  
  
The governor wrinkles his nose,. "This cake day would be much more appealing with a Croquembouche."  
  
Llewellyn has never heard this word before, but assumes it's positive in nature simply because of the way the governor brightens, as though tasting something very sweet. He can only smile and nod, feels his lack of understanding shine like a beam from his eyes.  
  
"I suppose you'll never have had a Croquembouche," the governor says as he drums his fingers against his cheek. "Just thinking about it makes me hungry." He shakes his head sharply then pours himself another cup of tea, "What were the other gift days?"  
  
"There's the gift day of linen, pearl and wood. Linen days involve a gift made from fabric, such as a pair of gloves or a small cloth doll. The day of pearl is often times a shining shell or fresh water pearls but something knitted using a perl stitch is very popular among those who can't afford much and often times lovers will give one another a hand carved wooden spoon. Which is a tradition of the Cymru to the west before they were absorbed into the empire. They create some beautifully intricate carvings."  
  
"The Brittonic people must be very dedicated lovers. In Gallia we merely offer dowries and agree on land mergers." The governor grins, his cheeks flush slightly, bringing out the fullness of his otherwise sharp features.  
  
"Wouldn't that only be the wealthy?" Llewellyn asks, "I've heard villanus in Gallia split a small stone and each person keeps a half. As a way to share a little something they both have."  
  
"I have heard of that, my you certainly know a great deal of things." The governor's eyes slither down Llewellyn's body. "Tell me, the robe your wearing…"  
  
"My master's."  
  
"Is it traditional to wear hand-me-downs?"  
  
"For the first year, yes, but I've not been able to afford my own to replace it. " Llewellyn glances to the ceiling, becoming aware of the delicate plaster designs that curl there. "So I just mend this one."  
  
"I see." The governor frowns. "You were never given an allowance to attire yourself suitably for your role?"  
  
"No, Your Highness. The court believe the upkeep of the old ways to be a waste of public resources. I can't say I blame them overly much. My role is worth very little."  
  
The governor is silent and thoughtful for a long minute. "What did your master do while he was alive?"  
  
"He gave advice to the previous governor in Eboracum sometimes, wrote the new histories while recalling the old, entertained at functions and festivals. He had his finger on the pulse of things and always knew how people felt. He was a great man and very highly respected. He sometimes used fortune cards to help people discover their future."  
  
"Fortune cards?"  
  
"A deck of cards with various symbols and meanings."  
  
"They play it in taverns, especially those who aren't great with numbers," Alasdair says as he stretches himself a little.  
  
"And you can do this as well?"  
  
"I am quite well versed in it, I've not used them since my masters passing. The cards were his, and it felt strange to use anything of his without permission." Llewellyn nips his lip and lowers his gaze to the floor. "He was very strict and hated infractions."  
  
"A difficult man to live with?"  
  
"He punished mistakes quite severely, but he made sure I knew what I needed to take on the role." Llewellyn's fingers tighten into fists. "Sometimes it feels like his shadow is still hanging over me and I'll never escape it."  
  
"Is that so." The governor swallows and attempts to hide a sorrowful face by looking out the window. "Men like that are quite common."  
  
Llewellyn feels the gaze of the man in the picture, the governor's father, become intense and suffocating, as though a blade is being twisted into his gut, his back stings as though lashed. He steadies his breath and compulsively begins to play the tune of the Songthrush. "The clouds may be thick, and the weather stormy, but it does not rip the sun or the moon from the sky and the light still breaks through. The cloud unthinking nourishes the earth with it's rain and inspires life and joy where it had wanted death and miseries reign."  
  
Llewelyn watches the governor's expression turn from gloomy to a thoughtful and soft sort of relief.  
  
"Is that from a bardic song?"  
  
"The song of Dragontear lake. The lamentation of the maiden." Llewellyn hugs his harp to his chest and stands. "I should probably be on my way. I have a lot of work to do in order to get the papers you requested in order and I'm sure you have vital work to attend, too."  
  
"Yes, of course." The governor stands, becoming a vision of calm and radiance again. "We shall walk you out. It was a pleasure meeting with you."

 

* * *

  
  
  
It's past midday when Llewellyn manages to get back into Old Town, his feet a little sore, his mouth dry. He drags himself into the courthouse, collecting articles for presentation. Most of the records are in a horrid state of disarray, with a few coming to light that had somehow slipped through his fingers. He arranges the ledger into chronological order with notes about the specifics of each bill and court case.  
  
By the time he's done the three office attendants are regarding him with a look of quiet disgust. The office is far too small even for them, his presence merely cramps them more.  
  
Llewellyn is suddenly happy to have his own office, regardless of how tiny and dark it might be.  
  
The final ledger is completed around four then Llewellyn, satisfied, closes the ledger and seals it with wax using an official courthouse stamp, signing the edge as evidence that the work is his own. Perhaps not a perfect job, but a good chance to catch up on all the articles he's managed to avoid.  
  
He leaves with the ledger in his bag, finding the building eerily quiet. A few workers smile their appreciation of his sharp tongue, others scowl at him for his disobedience of the judge and perceived disloyalty to the empire.  
  
The way back to the hall is avoided, instead he heads towards the apothecary. Not for any particular reason, simply because his feet take him along, his hand pushes the door open.  
  
Dylan is scribbling in his logbook and chewing at his thumb, while Michael lazily rolls back and forth pushing jars onto shelves. At first they don't seem to notice his entrance but Dylan glances up when Llewellyn approaches, smiles at him with good nature.  
  
"Goodness, Llewellyn, you're looking..." Dylan places his stubby pencil down to arrange his shirt. "Been busy today?"  
  
"Much busier than I expected." Llewellyn sighing, rests his arms on the counter, his head falling onto them as though his entire body has given up. "How has your day been?"  
  
"Slow and steady. We made a little money today. Gabriella sent us a payment and an order for some medicines. The only reason I get by at all." Dylan chuckles and drums his fingers against the wood. "You seem a little tired."  
  
Llewellyn groans and raises his head. "I got dragged to the bloody governor's office over that outburst the other day," he sees Dylan's face contort in terror and pale, "then I spent an age talking to the governor and getting him a full record of the courts files to take him."  
  
"What happened? Is everything all right? If I'd known I'd have gone with you for moral support." Dylan bites hard on his lip, dashing out from behind his counter to lay both hands on Llewellyn's shoulders.  
  
"It was fine. I told his highness the truth and he ruled in my favour." Llewellyn feels a sudden wet sting in his eyes and drops his head onto Dylan's shoulder. "I didn't even know how scared I was until just now."  
  
"I'd have been scared too," Dylan murmurs, waiting for Llewellyn to settle himself. "But he took your side, I knew he was a kind man."  
  
"He wants me to help investigate what's happening from now on." Llewellyn bites the inside of his mouth and flexes his fingers, now a touch sore from papercuts and lifting the stacks of wooden boxes. "Maybe I can help make things better around here."  
  
"Perhaps, but take it as it comes." Dylan glances to study Michael's handy work. "Michael, please put the new items behind the old."  
  
"Am I interrupting your work? Perhaps I should be on my way."  
  
"No, no!" Dylan waves his hands as though deeply dismayed by the thought. "Please, stay and join us for dinner again. As a celebration of today. You're working for the Governor, that's something worth a celebration I say."  
  
"I hate to impose any more than I have."  
  
Dylan snorts his amused derision. "I'm still cooking for three, so there's plenty to go around. Besides, you look exhausted. I can hardly send you home; you'll fall asleep without eating a thing. That's always how I end up." Dylan loops his arm around Llewellyn's shoulder and guides him through to the kitchen. "I'll make us all a nice cup of tea, you can sit by the fire and unwind for a while."  
  
"That's very kind." Llewellyn sits himself on a stool by the little fire and raises his hands. They're throbbing and flecked with tiny red scratches which causes Dylan to take a hold and study them.  
  
"Do your hands hurt?" he asks, and Llewellyn nods, curling his fingers softly against Dylan's palm, which is warm, dry and pleasant. The scarring on his fingers reminds Llewellyn of the pictures of cliffs he's seen in illustrations. Layers of colour compacted, like pages of a long, fascinating book.  
  
Dylan jerks his hands away with a rushed apology, then he marches swiftly towards the door.  
  
"Dylan." Llewellyn rests his hands on his lap and feels the whole days stress slide from his shoulders when Dylan stops and looks back in his direction with a questioning rise of his brows. "Thank you."  
  
A soft and content smile drifts into Dylan's eyes and plucks up the edges of his mouth like a lady might raise her skirts. With a small nod, he steps back out onto the shop floor.  
  
Llewellyn pulls the tie from his hair as he stands to throw off his bard's robe. It's suddenly too heavy. He leaves it on a peg, fixing his long tunic by tugging it into shape at the belted waist to create the slim shape it was designed for.  
  
The short sleeves leave his arms feeling cold and prickled with goosebumps, but comfortably free.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
Llewellyn is knocked from his lazy stupor by something cold and damp pressing against his leg. He peeks down, his eyes resting on a small brown dog with wiry fur and large dark eyes. The little dog's tail waggles when Llewellyn leans forward, its rear shakes when he extends his hand.  
  
"Hello, what are you doing in here?" His hand gets a lick and the dog yaps loudly, hopping up to rest both front paws on Llewellyn's leg in order to get a rough scratch at the ears.  
  
The noise brings Dylan into the room, a bottle in his hand with a look of mild displeasure etching soft wrinkles around his nostrils. "Hardd, how did you get in?"  
  
The dog, Hardd, springs to its little feet and bounds over to Dylan, kicking up a fuss of barking and jumping.  
  
"Michael, did you leave the back door open again?" Dylan's call goes unanswered, though Dylan doesn't seem to notice, his voice lowering with desperate commands of, "No! Sit! No, I said, no barking."  
  
The dog diligently ignores him and springs around.  
  
"I'm sorry about him, he's quite excitable," Dylan says, his eyes drowning in apology. "He usually guards my garden from birds."  
  
"He's lovely." Llewellyn bites in a laugh and extends his hand low, causing Hardd to leap over and accept the affection. "What a good dog."  
  
Dylan blows a curl of hair from his face then steps closer, he holds the bottle he was carrying out in Llewellyn's direction with averted gaze, his cheeks becoming flush in summer sunset pink. "I thought you might like some of this, for your hands. It'll ease the discomfort."  
  
The bottle is small and clear, the contents a milky fog of white liquid.  
  
Llewellyn studies how it sloshes around, one hand still combing through Hardd's bristly coat. "What do I do, drink it?"  
  
"You rub it on your hands, the crushed herbs heal the skin. It stings a little at first but it will soothe away the pain, help avoid infection." Dylan plucks the bottle away then pops the cork out.  
  
He takes a hold of Llewellyn's hand, massages a little of the oil into an area of his palm that has a long shallow paper-cut that's blazing a painful red. "You have to rub it is really well, otherwise it evaporates away and doesn't do much good."  
  
"It feels better already." Llewellyn watches Dylan's fingers as they knead; at first without thought, the firm circles soon turn to nervous nothingness.  
  
"You have really little hands," Dylan says eventually, turning Llewellyn's hand over as though examining some work of art. "Not that that's a bad thing. I mean, lots of people have small hands. I wish I had smaller hands, as mine are very stubby and clumsy. Plus they're ugly, not yours, mine. Not in a strange way you understand, just pleasant and elegant. My ma would have said you had the hands of a pianist, but she always said mine were more like shovels. "  
  
"Your hands are perfect." Llewellyn grins, allowing Dylan to continue massaging the strange oil into his skin. "You made this medicine. I'd never be able to do that."  
  
"I've practiced." Dylan smiles as he takes Llewellyn's other hand, releasing it when he's done with the anointing. "That should do it. I'm sorry if it hurts."  
  
"It stings a touch but nothing I can't handle." Llewellyn allows Hardd to hop onto his lap and flop there, pressing his face against the fur to see how it feels and smells. "I never had a dog, I suddenly wish I had."  
  
"You can keep him if you like. He eats more than we do." Dylan laughs when he crouches, ruffling his pet's ears lovingly. "And he cries and whines when he sees a C-A-T."  
  
Llewellyn chuckles, easing his head back up.  
  
"So," Dylan rests his arms on his knees and sniffs, "how are you feeling about the whole thing with the governor?"  
  
"A little dazed. It seems so unreal." Llewellyn nips his lip and casts his eyes upwards in thought. "It feels like I'm still in a bizarre dream and can't wake up."  
  
"I don't suppose you saw my brother?" Dylan asks, his head tilting in interest.  
  
"I did, he didn't say very much. I suppose he was on duty." Llewellyn still wonders about that. "From what I saw, he and the Governor get along quite nicely."  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
A gentle nod is all Llewellyn can muster, for he understands very little about the situation, and feels reluctant to say much more. "It was a little strange, the governor was very preoccupied with learning about our courting customs."  
  
"He was?"  
  
"I couldn't get him off the topic at all. I almost didn't want to tell him anything, but it didn't seem right." Llewellyn feels the stinging in his hands begin to fade into a softer sort of discomfort. "It's my job to educate, but I thought it was odd seeing as he's probably very busy. Why would he spend so long talking to somebody like me?"  
  
"I'm sure he has his reasons. Maybe he just took a shine to you." Dylan frowns. "I mean, in a friendly sort of way."  
  
"He was asking about the Moon festival. Since it was the cause of all this in the first place." Llewellyn bites into his lower lip again, hard enough to hurt. He studies Dylan from the corner of his eye. "Do you still want to go together? You don't have to. I don't want to force you."  
  
"No, I mean, yes! That is to say, I'm still looking forward to it. I've never gone with anybody but family before. It'll be wonderful to—" Dylan's mouth snaps shut and his face pales. "Michael, what are you doing in here?"  
  
"You said you were making tea." Michael lazily shrugs and smirks. "Am I interrupting?"  
  
"Of course not." Dylan tuts and rises to his feet. "Have you finished stocking everything and sweeping up?"  
  
"Yes." Michael rolls his eyes. "Just like you told me."  
  
"Right, I see." Dylan quickly scoops up Hardd then stuffs him into Michael's grasp. "I need you to take him for a walk, and pick up some meat for dinner while you're out."  
  
Michael's face blooms in confused disgust. "Why?"  
  
"Because I said so. The fresh air will be good for you." Dylan grips his brother's shoulders and steers him out of the room. "I'll get you some money to take with you."  
  
Michael's muttered response is impossible to make out, as is the rest of their muted conversation.  
  
Llewellyn decides to fill the kettle and prepare some mugs.


	2. Chapter 2

Llewellyn's trip to the governor's offices is less easy than the previous one. He's panting, sore lungs heaving in his chest. A sickening moment where he believes he's forgotten his papers, but manages to dig them out just as the governor's butler throws open the door to invite – or command – him inside.  
  
He can see his reflection as he passes a mirror; hair a mess of frizzy curls clotted with sweat at his brow, only managing a light smoothing as he walks. His chest still hurts a touch when he's guided into a richly decadent area he's not seen before: a large wooden door in a hall filled with paintings, dainty furnishing with immense windows through which even Deva's dim light floods in, making everything glisten in the way only expensive things truly can.  
  
The butler opens the door, waiting for him to enter, Llewellyn is stunned to immobility as soon as he does, the room beyond is grand in size. A long table sits in the middle of a floor of polished and perfect floorboards, and paintings twice Llewellyn's size – some even bigger – are hung on each wall.  
  
There's a colossal marble fireplace, brilliantly decorated, above which a mirror shimmers. It's almost the same size as the wall on which it's mounted, it makes everything seem huge as it reflects off a mirror of equal size that hangs on the wall opposite.  
  
The governor sits at the table, with Alasdair a few strides away.  
  
"Your Highness," the butler says looking at Llewellyn with a slight upturn of his lip; the smallest hint of disgust, "the bard is here, as you requested."  
  
"Late." The governor looks up from his book. "My office times are over, Mr Walsh."  
  
Llewellyn is taken aback, not by the stern tone, but by the use of his name, which has a soft lilt in the governor's mouth.  
  
"I apologise. I was helping a friend at his shop; time got away from me." Llewellyn places his fist into his palm and pushes gently. "It shall not happen again."  
  
"See that it doesn't," the governor says, seeming gratified and motioning for him to step closer.  
  
Llewellyn does, close enough to place his ledger on the table then back away a step to keep a respectful distance. "I have collected the bills that are currently in our court system, each one has its details recorded and is in order of date."  
  
The governor looks at the ledger as though finding it tediously dull already. "Is that a wax seal?"  
  
"Yes, Your Highness, I wanted to ensure nothing was tampered with. I'll conduct a more in-depth backlog for you if you require me to."  
  
"Most certainly. You have the mind of an official." The governor lifts the file, opening it with a swipe of his finger, his eyes glaze. "Do you believe anything in this portfolio to be out of order?"  
  
"Only one item, a number of taxation bills that failed to reach my hands prior to this examination. They propose a twenty percent rise to imports and building taxes." Llewellyn curls his hands together and shrinks a little. "I would politely ask that you stop this bill from passing. The taxes are already at forty percent, which is the standard of the empire. To raise them any higher would almost certainly do great damages to Old Town as well as breach the law of the empire."  
  
"I see." The governor frowns at the ledger. "Signed off by our judge once again, I notice."  
  
"If I may be bold enough to say," Llewellyn feels bitterness well up inside but attempts to sweeten it, "the judge at the Old Town court is a man of Roma, who has no interest in the well being of the people he resides over. Although his hearings are always fair, he has no love for Old Town and believes us to be beneath him and the empire."  
  
"That is very bold."  
  
"I apologise again, but it is the truth."  
  
The governor snaps the ledger closed then places it aside. "I'll take your words in confidence and consider accordingly. Now, please sit, I have more business to discuss with you."  
  
Llewellyn looks to the seat and slowly, reluctantly sits himself down as the governor once again dismisses his butler.  
  
"Speaking of the judge, I levied a fine on his pay for his accusations. As I'm in no need of it, I'm extending the money to you. But it's to be used to" – his eyes linger on Llewellyn's form; causing a sharp wince – "improve your attire. I won't have my officials seen here without their prescribed uniforms."  
  
"But, Your Highness, I'm—"  
  
"Once you're done here you're to visit my tailor, she's already been commissioned, however, she'll need some input and measurements." The governor holds his hand out to Alasdair and is given a small package which he gives to Llewellyn with an elegant twist of his wrist. "This is also for you; a token of respect for your desire to stand up for Deva and her people. A longing for justice is valued highly by the empire."  
  
Llewellyn takes the package, it's a small item wrapped in elaborate shining paper that twinkles bright in silver, liberally coated in Imperial symbols. "Thank you, but I really-"  
  
"I had presumed you a man who would crumble under pressure. I'm impressed. Most people I know can only be brave with a sword or a pistol in hand."  
  
Llewellyn frowns at the backhanded compliment and looks to the little package. "Thank you, it's an honour. I think. But I'd have preferred the money go back into Old Town."  
  
"It really is a very small token. Please." The governor motions to the bright paper and invites its opening. "I don't often have reason to gift such things."  
  
Llewellyn feels himself blush, reluctantly peels the paper away from the parcel, finding himself holding the most beautiful little box he's ever seen, a thin wooden one with inlaid pearl, turquoise and silver with a silver lock and hinges. The key is inside a paper envelope, threaded upon a fine chain with a clasp.  
  
Once he's turned the box to his satisfaction to soak in in the beauty of it, he uses the little key to pop it open, thinking it empty.  
  
Inside the same colour greets him with a pearl shimmer, printed on a heavy stock card and edged in fine silver. It's a deck of cards. Fortune cards. Each one has a beautiful image in bright watercolours with silver and golden inks painted upon it.  
  
Llewellyn feels a tear slip down his cheek and hastily wipes it away with a meek, "Thank you, so much. They're beautiful."  
  
"I would like to see how this fortune telling game is done, so it seemed only natural to give you your own set." The governor beams merrily. "I understand the apprehension of using something that once belonged to a frightening man."  
  
Llewellyn senses sadness despite the happy tone, sees that Alasdair notices it too, for his eyebrows furrow very slightly.  
  
"I'd be very happy to read your fortune." Llewellyn says, neatening the deck before handing it to the governor. "Please, shuffle them and place six cards in a triangle in any order you wish. Image down. One card at the top, two in the middle and three on the bottom."  
  
The governor does so, shuffling fast. He lays the cards out carefully, then glances at Llewellyn with a look of expectation.  
  
Llewellyn quickly turns the bottom three cards over. "These cards represent the past, for the past is how we understand the future. The Weeping Maiden is a sign of something lost and mourned, the crow is a symbol of forward movement and the Great Tower tells me that you've struggled to find your way to the top, because the stairs were numerous. A trial."  
  
He flips over the middle two cards. "The bear is a symbol of resilience; of a fresh beginning after a long trial. The knitting needles tell me you are currently creating something new. These cards represent the present. The place you currently are. You are building and growing."  
  
He flips over the last card. "This card is the future, the dragon is a symbol of passion and unrelenting love. The dragon is the sun and lights our path, but we must be wary of pushing ourselves too hard. Your future shows me that you will overcome your past troubles and become the stronger for them, if you allow yourself to, but you must beware of pushing yourself too hard or blaming yourself for the actions of others."  
  
Llewellyn lifts the dragon card and turns it back over. "But that is all just images on cards. You're not dictated by them nor do I claim them to be right."  
  
The governor looks thoughtful and inwardly closeted. He turns to Alasdair and rises to his feet. "I propose you have your fortune told, Corporal."  
  
Alasdair looks as though every inch of him hates the idea, yet he slips onto the seat as though to simply avoid causing a scene. "Aye, I suppose it can't hurt."  
  
Llewellyn hands him the cards and he repeats the task without needing to be told, then the lower line of cards is flipped over.  
  
"Let's see... The bull represents stubbornness and strength, it tells me that you have always taken pride in your work. The kestrel is ambition and the desire to fly as high as you can, that you've always been able to see your goals even if they are far away. The house represents family, and it tells me your roots are very important to you, family has made you who you are today."  
  
The next two cards are flipped over. "The cards of the present are the knife and the yarn, the knife represents pain which you are currently working through. The yarn tells me that you are being woven together and sometimes feel as though you are not in control. These cards together can be a sign of self defeat, but only if you let the pain cut through the yarn."  
  
The last card is turned over. "This card is the maiden, she is a symbol of death and transformation. She tells me that you will overcome your obstacles and a great change will happen, that you will reshape yourself and become something new." Llewellyn flips the card back over. "But these are only cards and do not dictate anything."  
  
Alasdair quickly lifts the little set of six cards, looking at each one carefully then wordlessly putting them back in the deck and standing up.  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm not quite as good with these as my master was." Llewellyn taps them into shape and places them back into the box, locking it and slipping the chain around his neck.  
  
"It was quite entertaining. I can see why people would play it for fun." The governor smiles and rests his hands behind his back.  
  
Llewellyn slips the little box into his pocket, toying with the key with restless fingers, "I can't wait to show Dy–" He bites his tongue and clears his throat. "Is there anything else you required of me? I don't want to keep you away from your work."  
  
"I'd like it if you'd stay seated for a moment." The governor then moves away, with Alasdair falling into step behind him.  
  
Llewellyn wonders if he's being tested for honesty, or patience, so he waits, eyes slipping across the paintings and windows, studying the fine table cloth and crystal chandelier that twinkles as though freshly cleaned.  
  
A few moments later the governor returns, with Alasdair carrying a platter with three little plates on it and more tea.  
  
"I couldn't get Croquembouche off my mind from our talk yesterday, so I ordered my kitchen staff to create one for me. I thought you both might enjoy a sample." The governor claps his hands together and grins. "A little taste of my homeland in exchange for the little taste of yours I've been given."  
  
Llewellyn almost chooses to decline the food, but two sensations hit him at once. At first he's fearful that turning down a gift might be cause for getting him in trouble. The next is a genuine interest in the  plate, which has several small brown orbs formed into a pyramid coated in a sugary glaze with curling sugar strands.  
  
The governor has already started eating his, seeming not to notice that both Llewellyn and Alasdair are still staring at the odd looking pastry.  
  
Llewellyn chooses to carefully pour tea into the three cups before he does anything else, then carefully takes a fork to the strange cake. The little balls are filled with a fluffy white crème in which he discovers a small sugared almond when he places it into his mouth.  
  
He's staggered by how good it tastes.  
  
"Delicious, is it not?" the governor says proudly. "A wonderful alternative to that strange flower cake you mentioned. Come on, Corporal, it won't injure you." The governor smirks, waiting for Alasdair to try some. "It's quite a big thing, so I have a lot to go around."  
  
"It's sweet," Alasdair mutters, he looks caught between wanting to finish off his plate and not wanting to admit liking it. He lifts his tea, draining that instead.  
  
"Well, I'm glad you like it. I adore the recipe myself. My maman could make the most delightful ones."  
  
"It really is a taste of home for you then, Your Highness?" Llewellyn nibbles a little more.  
  
The governor pauses for a second before nodding contentedly. "Yes, I suppose that's a way to describe it. She once created one covered in piped butterflies for my sister's birthday. It was stunning. I've never seen another one like it in all these years."  
  
"Your mother sounds like an amazing woman."  
  
The governor nods with a mix of happy nostalgia and sadness. "That's certainly the crux of it."  
  
Llewellyn lifts his teacup. "When I was little my brother would get me a roll of moon bread from Isabelle, a local baker. He never knew my exact birthday. She always put something special inside. Like pecans." Llewellyn takes a drink of the tea. "She's still amazing at making them."  
  
"I'll have to try some then." The governor claps his hands together merrily, then polishes off the rest of his plate. "Well this is very pleasant, I'm quite enjoying having you around, Mr Walsh. Tell me, since you've been on a tour of the palace, how do you like the ballroom? It's still something of a work in progress."  
  
"Beautiful, just like the rest of this building." Llewellyn peers around to refresh his memory. "When I came here as a child to look at it with my master, it was a very bleak and dark place. It's improved a lot."  
  
This pleases the governor very much.  
  
Llewellyn's eye falls onto a painting that he had not previously noticed – for it is very small compared to the rest – it gets him to his feet instantly, managing to ignore the inquiring voice that follows as he approaches it.  
  
The painting is of a woman in, her face demure, with long robes sweeping down her body, a silver staff in her hand. She is standing in front of a tree with small golden bells on the end of the branches, and behind her is a traditional looking village.  
  
"I found this painting in storage," the governor says, pushing it with his finger to correct some perceived skewing of its position. "I was going to leave it but it had a strong presence. I had it reframed."  
  
"It's beautiful." Llewellyn bows slightly. "It's an image of Lady Sian, the first bard. She was said to be able to end wars with one word and inspire peace and wisdom in the hearts of those who heard her. Her image is often taken down."  
  
"I had no idea. Then it certainly belongs here among these kings and queens." The governor places his hands behind his back and looks the painting over. "She was a beautiful woman, I can't imagine why anybody would take it down."  
  
"Because of where she was born, and what she represents." Llewellyn regards the painting and feels his gut hurt. "She was a Cymrian woman – as most of the very great bards were – and the bards are left over from Britannia's distant past. Most people today would rather forget all about her." Llewellyn turns to the governor and can't help smiling. "I'm grateful that you would put her out for everyone to see. She was more than just a bard, but a person who helped shape this country and make its history."  
  
The governor looks to the painting, seeming to gain a new respect for the old oils. "And to think, I thought she was simply a long dead governor. I might have to find a finer place for her now."  
  
Llewellyn, feeling at ease, studies the painting for a while longer: her mousey brown hair that spills in waves around her shoulders, her dark brown eyes that comprehend everything and her long thin fingers.  
  
It's the most beautiful painting he's ever seen.

Once satisfied he turns to the governor and says respectfully, "I hope I've not taken up too much of your time. You must be very busy and I'd hate to keep you away from the rest of your day."

"It was a pleasure, again. Now, I'm expecting to see you as soon as your new clothing is made, with your updated report."  
  
"Of course, Your Highness. If you need me at all before then you can summon me."  
  
The governor nods and guides Llewellyn out, calling him to pause at the door as an attendant steps over with a white box in hand. "I hope you'll accept this sample of the Croquembouche from earlier. There's just far too much to eat."  
  
Llewellyn takes the box in stunned silence, once again feeling his face become heavily pinked. "I'm-I mean, are you sure, Your Highness, I don't want to take it if you enjoy it so much…"  
  
"Nonsense, there's far too much of it and I'd like to give a little more to the people of Deva. So make sure you share it. With somebody special. Food is the language of the heart."  
  
Alasdair gives the governor a lamenting look that is regarded with a smirk then pointedly ignored.  
  
"I will," Llewellyn says. "Thank you."  
  
"And make sure you're more presentable when I see you next," the governor says somewhat sternly, seemingly to appear as though he's nothing but business and authority when his butler approaches. "Which includes your hair, attire and time keeping. Tardiness is very unbecoming."  
  
Although the words sound cutting, Llewellyn has a hard time feeling threatened or upset, for they lack any weight yet he politely agrees to amend himself appropriately and exits without a fuss.  
  
He can't wait to share this cake with Dylan, and decides to make dinner as well, because it seems only natural.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
Dylan looks dead-eyed at Llewellyn when he brings in the little bag of ingredients, his box of cake in one hand, groceries slung over his shoulder, harp nestled under the other.  
  
"Is it okay if I set these down?" Llewellyn shifts the weight slightly only to find Dylan relieving him of it soon after.  
  
"You're back from the governor's already? How did it go?"  
  
"Well," Llewellyn grins cheerily, "I might have saved you money on your taxes."  
  
"Sounds wonderful; Forty percent of my earnings is quite high."  
  
"Well, hopefully it won't go any higher." Llewellyn scratches his cheek, hoping to sound apologetic."I thought it'd be nice to make dinner for you and Michael, considering you've been giving me so much emotional support."  
  
"You don't have to." Dylan sets the bag on the table. "Really, it's no problem."  
  
"I insist. I'll work in here while you finish in the shop. You deserve a bit of a rest and I've had a shamefully relaxing day all things considered."  
  
"What exactly were you planning on making?"  
  
"Cymrian lamb with some potatoes and leeks and such. Nothing very fancy." Llewellyn reaches into the bag and pulls out the wrapped up bit of meat. "Mr Beilschmidt gave me a few badly chopped cuts rather cheaply and I can make the gravy with the bone."  
  
"That does sound delicious. But I really don't think –"  
  
"I have something with me the Governor asked me to share. But I'd like to make a meal of it. Please."  
  
"If you're sure. _Mi casa es su casa_. Or however that saying goes. Just give me a call if you need anything."  
  
"There is one thing." Llewellyn lifts the box. "This needs to be stored somewhere nice and cool. To keep it good."  
  
"Our larder is quite chilly, keeps the vegetables fresh." Dylan plucks the box up, studies it without daring to look inside. "I'll place it in there for you. Is there anything you'd like me to get you?"  
  
"You wouldn't have a sprig of rosemary handy, would you? I think it makes potatoes taste wonderful with lamb."  
  
"You use rosemary in your potatoes too? I add a little butter to richen things up. You must promise not to tell Aly, though. He'd think it was a waste of perfectly good butter."  
  
Llewellyn mimes his acceptance of this, making the motion of sewing his mouth closed and tossing away the needle. "I never thought of adding butter. When do you add it?"  
  
"I boil them first, then peel a few for mashing, grill the skins, add the butter to the mash, which I put the stew over. Makes it very thick."  
  
"I think you might be a genius, Mr Kirkland."  
  
"It was a trick my da taught me. He said Ma hated him wasting the butter so he'd only do it when she wasn't looking."  
  
Llewellyn chuckles, stepping closer to accept the bunch of rosemary and the pot of butter. "So, how has your day been? Not too terrible I hope."  
  
"It's improved a lot very suddenly. Quite tedious otherwise, there just aren't a lot of people coming in." Dylan shrugs. "Hopefully because they're perfectly healthy, though I doubt it."  
  
"If it helps, I didn't see anybody in the other apothecary when I passed."  
  
"That does help."  
  
"I'll put you and Michael on some tea and bring it to you when it's done. You can take your time closing up." Llewellyn sets the ingredients on the counter, "I wish I could help a little more."  
  
"I don't think anybody's made me a meal since Ma and Da. I feel very spoiled."  
  
"I'm not a good cook, so it won't be anything too wonderful. I've not really made anything more than stew in a while."  
  
"Just give me a shout if you need any help," Dylan says with a wide smile. "I'm going to go make sure Michael is tidying up properly. He's been in a strop all day. I had no idea he could work any less efficiently."  
  
Llewellyn is almost compelled to take a hold of Dylan's hand when he turns to move away, but he stops himself short, "perhaps some tea will sweeten him up." Llewellyn calls out, getting a sarcastic sounding laugh in response.

 

* * *

  
  
With dinner coming along nicely and the kettle reaching its boil, Llewellyn washes his hands then prepares the tea the way he recalls Michael and Dylan enjoying it. The cooking, even while alone, passes in a much more pleasant fashion; he can hear the chattering of the brothers now and then, the tinkle of the bell and footsteps.  
  
Once the tea is done he takes the mugs out, placing one beside Dylan as he counts his inventory and Michael who – very sullenly – counts the money in the register box.  
  
"I made you some tea," Llewellyn says when Michael chooses to acknowledge him. "I hope it's to your liking."  
  
"Thank you." Michael is trying to sound polite, yet his heart doesn't seem into it. "Dylan said you were cooking dinner…"  
  
"Yes, if that's alright. I hate to impose but I thought your brother might like a little time off."  
  
"Right." Michael turns away and flicks through the coins, of which there are so few the task could be done just by looking.  
  
"Is something the matter? You seem despondent."  
  
"I'm fine," Michael grumbles, his tone demanding the subject be left alone.  
  
Llewellyn chooses to respect his wishes and leaves him to his own devices, stepping up beside Dylan once again as he takes his first sip of the tea.  
  
"I might step out to get some fresh bread. It's always good to have with a meal."  
  
"I can get some if you like," Llewellyn offers, receiving a clutch at the shoulder and a shake of Dylan's head.  
  
"No, we needed some anyway since _somebody_ ate it all." Dylan's hand slides away, although Llewellyn had wished it would stay, he tries not to appear as though it had crossed his mind. "I'll be five minutes at most," He looks to Michael and his face becomes awash with worry. "I'm leaving you in charge, Mikey. Make sure you stay here in case somebody comes in."  
  
"Like who? The wind?"  
  
"If it does, give it decent service. And behave yourself."  
  
Michael says something under his breath that sounds distantly positive in his reassurance, but his mind drifts away as his attention returns to the coins.  
  
Llewellyn assumes the buying of bread hasn't gone to Michael's hands simply because communicating the desire for a cheaper loaf appears to be beyond his willingness.  
  
The bell above the door tinkles when Dylan departs and Llewellyn takes a moment to look after the lamb and vegetables before returning to the shop, in case Michael needs any assistance. He doubts it highly, but it seems unfair to leave him all alone.  
  
He amuses himself by studying the variety of jars and bottles, inhaling the heavy herb smell and listens to the shuffle of coins as Michael scoots them across the counter.  
  
Without his robe on and his hair pushed back and away from his face he feels almost at home behind the counter and on the shop floor even if his attempts to make conversation seem to go ignored.  
  
The bell sounds and a lady walks in, her heels making her sound like a small pony as she advances towards the counter. Without a second look she turns to him and says, "I'm looking for a syrup for my son, he's got a terrible cough. They had nothing suitable at the other apothecary. I trust you'll have something."  
  
"A cough?" Llewellyn mutters. "Michael, do you have anything for a cough?"  
  
"What sort?"  
  
His voice apparently didn't travel very well, so Llewellyn inquires with a polite, "May I ask what kind of cough? Dry? Wheezy? Mucus maybe? "  
  
"It's dry and painful."  
  
"Are there any other side effects? A headache or fever?"  
  
"He complains of being too cold. His bed is warm enough."  
  
"I'll go and find out what we have, please wait here and I'll be right with you." Llewellyn scuttles over to Michael, quickly passing on the symptoms and waiting for him to study the vials and bottles of unknown liquids.  
  
"Dylan says this stuff is best for a sore throat and cough, but a fever will need this." Michael passes the bottles over and shrugs. "It has yarrow extract."  
  
"Would you like to tell her the doses?"  
  
Michael peeks over and shrinks. "A teaspoon of each three times a day, if it's not worked within a week or two then she should see the healer."  
  
Llewellyn nods then takes both back; studying the prices listed on the bottles, relaying the information back as he was told it. "You don't have to take both," he reassures, "but together they should have him back on his feet."  
  
She looks both bottles over and thinks it over, "I'll take both, better to be done with it." The lady looks through her purse, and after paying she watches Llewellyn pack the little bottles into a paper bag, adding, "Do I know you from somewhere. Your face is awfully familiar."  
  
"I… I'm just a temporary clerk. Until the owner returns." Llewellyn shifts bashfully and smiles rosily at her. "I do hope your son recovers and you have a nice day."  
  
Mollified and pleased at the sentiment the lady nods and departs.  
  
"… Temporary clerk?" Michael says, with a cluck of his tongue.  
  
"I thought she might not trust a bard trying to sell her medicine." Llewellyn shrugs. "Which would be a shame, you'd lose a sale and I'm certain you know what medicines do what."  
  
"Right." Michael rolls his eyes and gets back to his work. "I bet Dylan would hire you if you asked him. You're here often enough."  
  
Llewellyn shakes his head. "Work here? It is lovely being around you both but I already have a job, plus I think you're all the help Dylan needs." Llewellyn sets beside Michael so he can add them to the registry.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
Dylan returns with bread in hand, letting out a small sigh. "I'm sorry it took longer than expected. I dropped into the Antler to collect some things for Isabelle. Apparently she's experimenting with a malted moon bread." He chuckles. "She gave me this deformed loaf for nothing. I'm beginning to see how Oliver plies that trading system of his."  
  
"Really," Michael says, with no inflection of a question, as though the word manages all alone without help. "You saved, what, a half a copper, maybe?"  
  
"Every little bit helps. Especially with the till looking how it does." Dylan turns the finance book around; frowning at the pages. "Mikey, you've been at this for hours. Your maths is perfectly fine."  
  
Michael shrugs half-heartedly; the subject soon dropped through some understanding that Llewellyn doesn't try to comprehend.  
  
Dylan turns his attention to Llewellyn with a bright grin. "I'm sorry I couldn't get more suitable bread."  
  
"It's perfect, I mean, bread is bread." Llewellyn twirls at his hair, studying the bobbled looking thing in Dylan's hand. "A few imperfections make it more unique."  
  
"Yes, I guess it does." Dylan looks to the loaf again; his eyes half lidded as if in a daydream. "It reminds me of when we were first getting acquainted. We barged into each other at the bakery door and you gave me the half loaf."  
  
"He kept it for weeks."  
  
"Michael!" Dylan's laugh is shrill and a little too loud, "We were rationing it, that was why, don't you recall? _Anyway_ , I know that's a silly thing to remember."  
  
Llewellyn recalls it vividly yet hazily at the same time, as he does a great number of things that don't require his full attention. "The hair was in my eyes because I lost my ribbon, and you wore a jumper that was two shades of brown," he mumbles, but that is all he really remembers. "Somehow I always lose my hair ties. I'm not even sure how."  
  
"I like your hair down, it's attr—nice." Dylan coughs. "It's nice both ways of course, I mean however you like it is clearly the right option. I'm just saying that—" Dylan forces his mouth shut, glancing around him for a way out of the current conversation.  
  
"I'm going to check on the lamb, would you like me to slice some of that bread?"  
  
"If you'd like to, be careful with the knife. You've used it before but it's temperamental…"  
  
Llewellyn takes the loaf and nods, choking bashfully as the belated compliment registers. Most comments about his hair have compared it to a starving haystack or extremely cheap silk or cotton that frays after a single use.  
  
Nice never came into the vocabulary before Dylan.  
  
As he steps back into the kitchen Llewellyn hears the long pause that befalls the brothers which is followed by a drawn out, "smoooooth," from Michael.  
  
Followed by a strangled sounding hiss of embarrassment.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
The prince had looked exceedingly pleased with himself after the bard left, like the cat who got the cream. Or, perhaps more accurately, the cat who got the cream cake.  
  
Once the rest of his work is finished for the day, he prowls all the way back to his chambers, and practically purrs when he sees the bottle of wine that has been set out in his sitting room to restore his spirits after his hard afternoon of sitting around having pleasant chats with people and eating dessert.  
  
Given the tenor of the rest of his behaviour, it wouldn't have come as too much of a shock if he'd poured himself a saucer of the stuff and started lapping it up, but he restrains himself to the proper glasses. He hands one to Alasdair in passing on his way to the sofa, which he sinks down onto with a small groan of pleasure which betrays that he must have been feeling discomforted in some fashion, despite the relative ease of his day.  
  
Alasdair drinks a mouthful of his own wine, relishes the slow wave of warmth that spreads along his throat and through his chest after he's swallowed it, and then says, "Old boots and cough syrup?" because he's already tired of trying to score points in this particular game.  
  
The prince's chuckle sounds like a blunt saw being dragged against dense wood; rough, jagged and halting. "Close enough," he says. "Leather and raspberries. Good guess, Aly."  
  
Alasdair toys with the idea of pretending offence and demanding satisfaction for his palate's insulted honour, but ultimately discards it as a needless distraction considering the far more pressing matters the two of them need to discuss.  
  
In his eagerness to begin that particular confrontation, he doesn't take quite as much care as is his usual wont when he seats himself next to the prince. He lands his weight a little too heavily and a lot too awkwardly, and manages to jog the man's elbow, earning himself an imperiously raised eyebrow and muttered rebuke about his clumsiness.  
  
Alasdair ignores both. "So, this 'somebody special' you suggested the bard share his cake with?" he says. "I presume you meant it to be Dyl."  
  
"I did," the prince says. "You did give me the impression that your brother's feelings were reciprocated." He bites lightly on his bottom lip, and then, sounding quite distraught at the prospect, adds, "Was I wrong?"  
  
"Granted, I'm far from an expert in such matters, but, naw, I don't think so. I just don't think you should be encouraging him like that, regardless."  
  
"Now I really am confused." The prince's eyes roll heavenwards, as though seeking answers from the divine. "First you tell me that you don't disapprove of the match, and now that I shouldn't encourage it?"  
  
"It's not going to change anything material, is it? No more than those fancy cards you gave the bard, or the new robes you're going to kit him out with. They'll have this little bit of... Of romance, or whatever, and I'm sure it'll be nice enough, but they're still going to think themselves to poor to start courting afterwards, aren't they? Seems as though it might just make everything that bit harder to bear."  
  
"I intend to offer Mr Walsh more than gifts," the prince says. "I think it's deplorable that such an important public figure is going about in rags, half-starved, and that his place of office is falling into ruin. He deserves the pecuniary support of his governor, so he can perform his duties to the best of his no doubt substantial abilities."  
  
Alasdair stares at him blankly as he tries to glean anything approaching sense from this pronouncement. "Which of his duties could you possibly think he deserves to get paid more for?" he asks, when the attempt fails. "What does he do that someone else can't do better? We have books now, and newspapers, and periodicals, we don't need someone prancing around singing the news and our history at us anymore."  
  
"He served me well today," the prince says stoutly, clearly unperturbed by Alasdair's scorn. "And I'm sure he will do so again in the future. What's more, the history he records and recounts is that of Britannia, not the Empire, which is more than can be said for any product of this country's printing presses. I think that alone is something that deserves to be both preserved and rewarded."  
  
As the prince has never before evinced any concern about either the Empire's flexible definition of historical truth, or its stranglehold on the Brittonic publishing industry, Alasdair is inclined to believe it his best effort at justification for an arrangement he'd already decided to establish, come what may.  
  
And no matter what his real reasons may be, it's an admirable enough goal that Alasdair would feel as though he were working contrary to his own interests if he argued against it.  
  
Instead, he asks, "How richly rewarded, exactly?"  
  
The prince lowers his eyes and takes a dainty sip of his wine. "Fifty silvers a week seems more fitting to his station."  
  
"Fifty silvers a week! That's almost twice what you're paying me!"  
  
"If I thought you'd accept it, I'd pay you four times as much again, at least," the prince says, smirking into his glass. "But it should be enough for the bard, should it not? To pay for everything necessary for his comfort, and perhaps that of a spouse, too? The repairs to the hall are the obligation of the town council, not its inhabitant, so I will arrange for them myself."  
  
"It's more than enough, Francis. Maybe too much, and I can't promise you that the bard will accept it. I seem to recall that they have some odd rules around being paid and the like."  Alasdair shakes his head in disbelief. "Are you doing all this for Dyl's sake?"  
  
"I'm doing it for the bard's," the prince says, emphasising the last word heavily. "The possible benefits to your brother are secondary, though, of course, very welcome all the same."  
  
His smile returns, and Alasdair finds himself echoing it, though he doubts his own looks even a fraction as self-satisfied as the prince's.  
  
"If he was here, Dyl would be offering to dig out one of his vital organs with a spoon to present you in gratitude, I imagine," he says. "You'll just have to settle for a 'thank you' from me, I'm afraid."  
  
"That's more than enough," the prince says, laughing. "Given my current situation, I cannot hope for anything more than a vicarious romantic life, so I'm glad that I might be able to help two people find their happiness together."  
  
And Alasdair hopes in return that the prince will learn to come to terms with his scars well enough soon that he has confidence to seek out a new partner. For a man who clearly places a great deal of importance in such things, it seems somewhat tragic that he feels that they are beyond his reach for the time being.  
  
"When do you propose letting the bard know about this fit of largesse?" Alasdair asks quickly, not wanting to dwell any longer the amorous implications of the prince's decision, whether they be for the bard, his brother, or, second-hand, the prince himself.  
  
"Ah, it will have to be tomorrow at the earliest, now," the prince says. "I shall have to make certain arrangements with M. Jansen, and the aldermen of the town council, and I fear that I lack the energy for anything more strenuous than reading and warming myself by the fire this evening."  
  
With that, he picks up his book and stretches his legs out towards the grate, which is a clear signal – and the only one they've managed to come up with, as every system of facial tics they've attempted to devise in order to silently convey information to one another has thus far been a dismal failure – that Alasdair is free to do the same.  
  
A few minutes later, the prince kicks off his boots, and then his toes begin their familiar dance: stretching out and then curling back in again as he alternately flexes and then relaxes his feet. The constant flicker of movement in Alasdair's peripheral vision, the endless whispering shuffle of noise, distracts him to such an extent that he soon loses the thread of his concentration, and, with it, any chance he might have had of keeping track of the complicated web of political intrigue which apparently binds the piratical upper crust just as tightly as their landlubber counterparts.  
  
"Have you ever thought of wearing boots that are actually comfortable?" he asks, glaring at the prince over the top of his own book.  
  
"I wore nothing else, at one time. I didn't like it any better," the prince says archly. Seemingly as an afterthought, he adds, "My cousin's valet rubs his feet every night, you know."  
  
There's a certain doleful note in his voice and wistful cast in his countenance that makes Alasdair extremely nervous.  
  
"Good for him," he says. "But I'm a personal guard, not a valet. No-one would expect me to be doing that for you, right?"  
  
"To be truthful, I have no idea. In any case, I wouldn't want..." The prince pauses for entirely too long before continuing with, "I wouldn't ask you to do such a thing, no matter what anyone else might expect. Though" – he smiles puckishly – "I imagine you might discover that you're quite skilled at the task, if you ever were called to perform it. Your hands look as though they're very strong, and probably surprisingly agile."  
  
Alasdair looks down at his fingers, which are broad, blunt, and – as the prince should well know by now – often extremely clumsy when pressed into any service more delicate than swinging a sword, and snorts in derision at the empty flattery.  
  
"I suspect you'd more than likely end up with a broken bone or two, actually. Though..." He pauses, pretending thoughtfulness. "If you really were of a mind to up my pay by two gold a week, like you mentioned earlier, that'd probably act as incentive enough to learn how to do it properly in short order."  
  
The prince gapes at him in silence for a moment, but his expression eventually collapses into a sullen scowl. "I don't know why I even bother to try and compliment you," he says. "I was merely making an idle observation about my cousin's valet before, I didn't mean..." He growls in irritation, and then holds his book up stiffly, hiding his entire face from view. "As ever, please forget I said anything."

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
Dinner is still not quite ready by the time the shop closes, so Dylan and Michael have temporarily excused themselves to wash away the grime of the day. The floors are thin enough that their footsteps are clear, Llewellyn wonders what their muffled conversation might be.  
  
Eavesdropping, however, is rude in this setting where there's nothing to gain aside from idle nosiness. It's a nosiness he's honed to a sharp edge over the years, it's difficult to switch off.  
  
He already has the table set – not very neatly due to his lack of experience in that area –  soon finding himself wondering if he really should be here again. The implications of his extended presence had been lost on him while his mind was focused. Wandering minds, however, don't have maps to follow and end up in uncomfortable places.  
  
That thought is lost in the horizon to another intrusive one, which strikes so hard that Llewellyn is dazed my it. A flash of Dylan's nakedness, stitched together from his thoughtless glances and observations; sculpted to a blurry perfection that makes him squirm and fluster in his own skin.  
  
Those thoughts are definitely unwelcome. He worries that they might betray themselves somehow, or that the fact they happen at all might be some sign of a nefarious mind. The stories suggest to him that thoughts of those you care for should be pure things.  
  
The villains are always the objectifying party.  
  
Making tea is a suitable distraction, even if he can feel the tightness of his skin and the high colour sticks when Dylan steps back into the room, freshly washed and dressed, his hair combed, his hands tucked neatly behind his back.  
  
"This kitchen smells wonderful, it's more noticeable when you're not the one cooking."  
  
Llewellyn nods and offers the tea out. "I cut the bread, I probably did it too thick again."  
  
Dylan's eyebrows furrow, as though he's detected something that doesn't agree with his standards. He strides over and studies Llewellyn's face with prying eyes. "You look a little feverish, are you alright?"  
  
"The heat of the kitchen," Llewellyn spits out in a panic.  
  
Unconvinced, Dylan presses his hand to Llewellyn's brow and leaves it there until he's worked out if he should be concerned or not.  
  
Tension holds Llewellyn stock still, his muscles contracting him slowly in on himself as he takes in the softness of Dylan's touch, gentle and caring without a hint of the anger he recalls when Angus would scold him. He'd lean into it if his body had the capacity to move, but he's locked and immobile, even when Dylan's fingers tease his hair away from his brow and slip downwards so close that Dylan's fingers tickle Llewellyn's cheeks.  
  
"This kitchen _is_ hot," Dylan's agrees quickly. "You must just be flushed from the stove." He grins and shifts his weight.  
  
Llewellyn nods, his eyes trying to ignore the little parts of Dylan that always catch his eye. The slope of his belly, his thick thighs and— he looks to the ground for safety. "I'll get your plate ready if you sit. I'm sure Michael will be down soon."  
  
Dylan nods his cheerful agreement, seeming not to notice that Llewellyn sneaks a glance at his arse.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
Despite Llewellyn's fears, dinner calms his mind.  
  
He places a plate in front of Michael when he takes the seat beside his brother at the table. It's a decent portion if not a little substandard in quality: a serving of the meat, a pile of potatoes in their rosemary seasoning, some grilled leek, and a small helping of mashed carrot and parsnip. The bread, oddly shaped from Llewellyn's poor slicing, sits in the middle of the table, with a little plate of butter alongside. Mugs of tea flank Dylan and Michael's plates.  
  
Llewellyn isn't sure about the tea in retrospect, but has a glass of water for himself.  
  
It's the best food Llewellyn knows how to create. Even if the lamb is fatty and chewy, it seems to sit well with Dylan, who takes a big mouthful of everything and makes a noise of pleasure. He adds a little gravy from the jug after that then sups his tea in contentment.  
  
"I could get used to food like this." Dylan slices up his meat and bites into another mouthful. "You really didn't have to go to so much effort."  
  
"I'm glad you like it." Llewellyn samples the food himself. The meat is as fatty as he expected, but the vegetables are well cooked, the flavours mingling together nicely. "It's more of a week's end meal than anything. I can't cook very well."  
  
"If this counts as not cooking well, then I think you're all right."  
  
Llewellyn nods, hesitant to disclose just how difficult the process had been and how lucky they were it had come together at all.  
  
His only consolation beyond Dylan liking it is that Michael seems to inhale the food, although perhaps he is only saving himself from a taste he finds unpalatable. Nevertheless, it is somehow less off-putting than Oliver's way of eating, which is slow and calculating even if it's equally ravenous.  
  
"So, should I ask now what the occasion is?" Dylan says when he's done eating and is sitting back with his hand resting on his tummy. "Not that I think you need to—I mean you're welcome to—" Dylan's mouth closes instinctively and he wipes some nonexistent gravy from his lip with a napkin before trying again. "You seem in good spirits."  
  
"Well, things have just been going so well since that day with the judge. I really thought I'd be in trouble." Llewellyn pops a little meat into his mouth and chews it delicately, swallowing when he's decided how to continue. "And I'd never have had the courage to do that if you'd not been there. I'm just really grateful."  
  
"I didn't do anything." Dylan becomes a soft shade of crimson. "I'm happy that things worked out. It's about time somebody around here had some decent luck."  
  
"When I took my ledger to the governor, the one I had the wax seal on, I joined him in a beautiful ballroom. He gave me this." Llewellyn tugs the little box from his inner pocket, unlocks it and hands it to Dylan.  
  
Dylan scrutinises the box of cards, a look of wonder slowly emerging over the relatively fine quality of the item. "He gave you this? It's beautiful."  
  
"A gift he said, for my desire to stand up for Deva and the law. But I don't think I really did anything special." Llewellyn shrugs and pokes at his meal, taking a small mouthful, aware that he's the last one eating, but not interested in rushing. "Plus there was the other thing—"  
  
"Other thing?"  
  
"Because of his lack of respect, the governor fined the judge. He extended the sum to me, to make me—" Llewellyn feels suddenly embarrassed. "He wants me in a new robe. I think he's ashamed to see me in the other one since I'm to report to him now."  
  
"You're getting a new robe? That's fantastic news!" Dylan places the little box into Michael's inquisitive hands and leans forward. "When will you be getting it?"  
  
"I was meant to report to the tailor, but I came right here.." Llewellyn hopes that doesn't cause too much trouble, but the cake had seemed like it'd need to be stored away somewhere cool as soon as possible. "So I guess sometime after tomorrow?"  
  
"Excellent, you deserve it." Dylan nods. "Nobody else in this bloody place would have spoken out like you did. And now you're working for the governor. Goodness it seems like he's going out of his way to be kind to everyone."  
  
"It seems so." Llewellyn still wonders, uncertain, at the governor's motives. He had never once looked in Llewellyn's direction before. "It will be nice to have my own attire. It feels like I'm dragging my master around even now."  
  
"I bet you'll look beautiful— It! _It_ will look beautiful," Dylan stammers. "I've seen etchings of some of the old bard's clothes and _they_ looked wonderful. So ornate."  
  
"I don't think I'll want anything too..." Llewellyn hesitates to use the word ‘expensive' because it seems strange to attach the word to a piece of clothing. "... Ornate. I just don't have very exciting tastes. So I'm hoping it'll be relatively cheap."  
  
"You should get the best you can, if it's coming from the pocket of somebody who has plenty."  
  
Llewellyn nods, pushes his hair behind his ear, keeping his head low. "Maybe, but I'd like to put a little money back into the community. That's why I spoke out in the first place. So—" Llewellyn almost chokes because the words don't come to him as easily as he'd like, "I thought maybe, since it was you who helped me to get my courage, I'd extend the rest to you. To thank you. For everything." The words become softer and quieter as Llewellyn speaks them, feeling as though the air is thinning.  
  
"Me? Goodness no." Dylan stares at him wide eyed with horror. "You got what you did on your own, you should use it for yourself."  
  
"But I don't want anything very much." Llewellyn rests his hand on top of Dylan's, "I'll give some to the orphanage, perhaps, but there's nobody in town I want to help more than you. Because—" Llewellyn's words won't come out and he has to rearrange them. "Because I love this shop and being here because it feels like… Plus you've been looking out for me so much, I really want to repay you. It's something I want to do. Even if only once."  
  
Dylan's eyes skitter to where Llewellyn's hand rests atop his own. "You should think it over, but I'll—" Dylan's hand carefully turns so their palms are touching. "I'll respect your choices; just don't feel like you owe me anything."  
  
"It's not about owing you. It's just the right thing to do. I can't imagine it'll be much, but it'll help you square up your books a little."  
  
Dylan chuckles, smiling dreamily when Llewellyn curls his hand loosely into a ball in his palm, their fingers slipping together then apart almost invisibly.  
  
"So, the governor took a shine to you." Michael hands the cards back. "Does that mean he _likes_ you?"  
  
Llewellyn blinks at the question, because it's a context he hadn't considered. "I suppose, he was quite friendly."  
  
"I bet he was, not everybody gets gifts from him. I mean he's just paying Aly and he's guarding his life so…" Michael's mouth snaps shut when he glances at Dylan's blanched face, immediately looking regretful. "Not that it means anything…"  
  
"He really just seems to want to pick my brains on—"  
  
"On things like courtship." Dylan mumbles, deflating in his seat.  
  
Llewellyn nips at his fingernails then at his lip before rising. "I have one more thing to give you both." He rises from his seat and scampers over to lift the box from the pantry, collecting some small saucers and spoons and putting a portion of the little cakes out.  
  
He delivers them cheerfully. "Here, I thought you'd like to try this."  
  
"What is it?" Michael studies it, poking at it with his spoon, "Some kind of dumpling?"  
  
"it's a, " Llewellyn has to force the word, "croquembouche," for it's a little too foreign for him. "A sort of cake from Gallia. It's delicious. I tried some just today."  
  
"You picked this up from Isabelle?" Dylan asks, not lifting the spoon yet.  
  
"Well, no, the governor gave it to me. He asked that I share it with… someone, and I immediately thought to bring it here. I tried a little of it while I was speaking with him. Alasdair had some too though I'm not sure he liked it," he adds, in the hopes of easing Dylan's obvious lack of colour.  
  
"He asked you to share it?" Dylan taps at it.  
  
"Yes, he handed it to me in that box before he told me to clear off and tidy my hair." Llewellyn licks his lip and taps Dylan's idle hand with his fingers. "His loss is our gain."  
  
Dylan smiles at the hand offered to him and studies Llewellyn's face, still lacking in colour but seemingly a mite reassured. "And you brought it all the way here?"  
  
"I did, I was eager to share it with you, and tell you the good news." Llewellyn chuckles. "It's my treat to two of my favourite people."  
  
Michael pauses in stuffing a the first little orb of pastry into his mouth. "Wait, I'm one of your favourite people?"  
  
"Of course you are," Llewellyn reassures, offering him a light smile before glancing back to Dylan. "You're both wonderful," he says, his eyes softening as he studies Dylan's freckles and rising colour.  
  
Michael then hastily bites into his spoonful and immediately tenses. "Oh my fucking gods, it's full of—" He skips the word he was about to say and replaces it with, " _C_ _ream_."  
  
"Oh, you don't like it?" Llewellyn frowns apologetically.  
  
"No it's great I just thought it was—" He plays with the other half before tentatively popping it into his mouth. "Something else."

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
Dylan and Llewellyn eat their dessert much slower than Michael, who is offered and accepts a second helping. He seems pleased at being allowed a little more. It's all eaten with a mug of tea each and the time ticks by far too swiftly as Dylan and Llewellyn bat the conversation between them at a leisurely pace.  
  
Michael, seemingly bored of their talking, takes out the deck of cards and looks through them.  
  
"Would you like your fortune told, Michael?" Llewellyn asks while Dylan takes the plates away.  
  
"I don't believe in fortunes." Michael shrugs, holding the cards out as soon as Llewellyn believes him to have no interest. "I'd like to see though."  
  
"Give them a shuffle then lay them in a triangle of six with three at the bottom."  
  
Michael does so with hesitation, his skill with the shuffling is lacking, but the cards are soon laid out nonetheless. Llewellyn scoots around to sit beside him and flicks over the first three cards. "These cards are the past, the owl is wisdom and silence, you've always been a quick learner at things you're interested in. The shadow lets me know that you've always preferred to keep to yourself. This card, the pin, means that you have always taken great care to hold yourself together. But that it's difficult to avoid pricking your finger in the dark."  
  
Michael frowns at the cards and taps the middle row. "These are the present day then?"  
  
"Very perceptive. These cards tell you where you currently are. The yarn and the knitting needles together let me know you're eager to make something of yourself, and with some patience you'll be able to make what you like. So long as you use the right materials."  
  
"What does material have to do with the present, I don't knit or sew."  
  
"It means..." Llewellyn looks to the ceiling and muses it over. "To harness what you currently have and not make something out of nothing."  
  
"And this last card is my future?"  
  
"Supposedly, but I think we should all be in charge of our own futures. It's just a picture on a slip of card."  
  
"I don't understand why people even bother with this stuff if it doesn't tell you anything."  
  
Llewellyn shrugs, "I think it's merely frames the context of things you already understand. It's what history and understanding revolve around. Our ability to learn from and apply it in ways that matter to each of us."  
  
Michael raises a brow sceptically, looking distinctly like Alasdair as he flips the last card over.  
  
It's a hangman's noose. "Great." Michael hisses and rests his chin moodily on his palm. "Even these cards have it in for me."  
  
"This card tells me that you run the risk of strangling what you are currently building, whether by self doubt, pessimism or jumping to conclusions. But this owl card reassures me you're more than intelligent to get through it all."  
  
"Pfft, I can't even kick a football properly, how smart can I be?"  
  
"You helped me serve the lady in the store. Which will help her son get on his feet, and who knows how that will help others." Llewellyn lifts the cards and places them back in the deck. "You sell yourself short, which is natural, but I have faith in you and I'm certain Dylan does too."  
  
"It's not you two I'm worried about." Michael mumbles, looking away.  
  
"Take things as they come, life has a way of working itself out and giving us what we need."  
  
"Llewellyn's right you know." Dylan sits himself at the table opposite them. "I mean, consider how different things are for him after one small act. You never know what might turn your luck around."  
  
"Is it okay if I go and do some reading?" Michael stretches his arms out and feigns a yawn. "I'm beat."  
  
"Are you sure you don't want to stay up? I was planning on demonstrating my harp playing."  
  
"Definitely not." Michael winces. "I'm far too tired." He sighs and rubs at his eye. "Thanks for the food and cake, bar—Llewellyn. "  
  
"You're welcome. Enjoy your book and have a pleasant night."  
  
"We'll try and keep the noise down." Dylan grins at him. "And don't forget to brush your teeth, and –"  
  
"Good night, Dylan." Michael rolls his eyes sharply then pads away.  
  
Llewellyn frowns when his feet have drifted a distance away. "I hope I didn't make him feel worse with these cards."  
  
"He'll survive, I think he just has a lesson or two to learn on his own. The same as we had to when we were younger." Dylan drums his fingers on the table. "Sometimes I think back to myself at his age and realise how bloody ignorant I was. I used to think I knew everything. Imagined every failing was the worst one, every day the last to make things work out."  
  
"The joy of youth." Llewellyn shuffles the deck and places them on the table. "Care to have your fortune read, Mr Kirkland?"  
  
Dylan lifts the cards and shuffles them, setting out a triangle of cards on the table, "I'm quite well versed in the past and present, I just hope the future works out."  
  
"The first card is the bat, the bat can find it's way in pitch darkness and loves company. You enjoyed the company of others as well as your own private time out in the open air. The next card is the rose, a flower that blooms beautifully if cared for but has sharp thorns, others sometimes shun touching the soft petals for fear of getting pricked and the mountain represents optimism and hope. A desire to see what's beyond and a thirst to reach the peak."  
  
"The card of the present is the home, home is currently on your mind, the heart card says that your home is where your heart is, that you've started to find what you're looking for while you were out on that mountain."  
  
Dylan nods but doesn't seem particularly touched by this so far. "What about the future?"  
  
Llewellyn invites him to turn it over himself, and when he does the card remains in his hand and his mouth trembles along with his hand as he lays it flat.  
  
The card is the lovers.  
  
Llewellyn can't say much, eventually clearing his throat and slowly lifting his gaze. "This card represents emotional connection, perhaps a tightening to the bonds of family or… something or somebody else. You've fostered your relationships and they'll grow stronger if you let them."  
  
"Oh." Dylan swallows hard and eases the card closer with a gentle slide of his finger. "I thought it meant, actual love."  
  
"Maybe it does. You never can tell."  
  
Dylan gnaws heavily on his thumbnail, and then clears his throat. "Listen Llewellyn I've been thinking and I wanted to tell you—" Fear suddenly seems to take root, he stammers and trips over his own words. "It's _late_ and you should stay, and avoid the walk home, in the dark. I have a bed – you knew that – but I meanthatistosay, you can use it and not leave, not risk walking all the way back. In the dark. By yourself. Unless you want me to---walkyouhomewhichsoundslove-perfectlyacceptable."  
  
Llewellyn has a difficult time keeping up, as the words arrive at such a clip that they mash together into sounds that are closer to incoherent bleating than a language.  
  
"I was hoping we could catch up on our harp lessons," Dylan says at a more normal rate. "I'm getting much better. At least I think so, I'm still a little flat and my fingers sometimes get mixed up."  
  
"I'd love to, so long as I'm not—"  
  
"No, not imposing. You're never not welcome. Besides it's only good manners, after all you—Well, you're just lovely company. I'd let you stay forever if it came to it, on account of your being here is so… pleasant.." Dylan smacks his own forehead with a sharp swipe of his hand. "That sounds totally insane, doesn't it?"  
  
"It sounded very sweet." Llewellyn twirls at his hair. "I'd love to share your bed." He panics. "I mean stay in, like borrowing, not sharing. I'm sure sharing would be great but I've not been abed beside anybody since I was little."  
  
Breakdown in communication now achieved, Dylan's face so brightly coloured that he'll either explode or begin attracting female robins, Llewellyn sinks as low in the chair as he can.  
  
"I'm really sorry, that came out wrong," he admits quietly.  
  
"No, it's... I..." Dylan mumbles and chirrups very quietly under his breath. "I didn't mean that I wanted to bed you. Just to give you a bed, and... Oh gods, did I just say that as well?"  
  
Llewellyn can't take the pressure anymore and slips into self-preserving laughter.  
  
Dylan relaxes and joins in. It's a glorious sound. "You know, I think the governor slipped something into that cake. My mouth just isn't working."  
  
"Mine either, apparently."  
  
"I'm going to grab you a nightshirt, and I'll freshen the bed. If you want to have a bath down here or anything, you can. It's totally private." Dylan offers, rising in his seat with the purpose of putting the kettle on. "But only if you really—"  
  
"I'd really like that, I'm disgustingly sweaty and sticky."  
  
Dylan pauses in all movements, as though he'd expected a different answer and this one has thrown him entirely. "Right, yes of course, I can draw you a little water and—"  
  
"I can do that myself, if you show me where everything is."  
  
Dylan's mouth opens, closes, then he regains his footing with a cheerfully polite, "I'll just go find everything, give me a moment." He then jogs away and doesn't reappear again for at least ten minutes.  
  
Llewellyn wonders if he should have declined.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
The little bath is shallow, but warm. Certainly warmer than what he's used to. Dylan's kitchen is air tight, without a chilled breeze sucking the comfort out. Everything seems relaxing enough that Llewellyn lounges for a while before getting to work scrubbing at himself with the supplied soap, taking care to untangle and clean his hair, which had practically been sticking together in clumps.  
  
When he's finished, he dries himself off with the towel he'd been given,  tying his hair back in a loose bun that will soon require combing. His hair is still a cluster of messy tangled curls, but at least it's clean of sweat and grease.  
  
His own nakedness clings to his mind, even lingering when he pulls on the nightshirt left for him – it's so large on his frame that the fabric hangs off him, drapes off his shoulder and reaches almost to his knees – he tugs on his short trousers to help lessen the sensation of exposure.  
  
He puts the kettle on after that, coaxing Dylan into asking, "Are you decent?" from some place of seclusion.  
  
"Yes, I'm just going to empty the bath out."  
  
Dylan gives him a hand, then shoos Llewellyn inside away from the cold night air.  
  
"I hope the shirt is comfy, it was the best I had that was clean," Dylan says when he notices the displayed skin. His eyes linger there long enough for Llewellyn to discover that the attention doesn't cause him any discomfort, but a sinister and worrying desire to encourage it.  
  
"It is, it's very soft."  
  
"I'm afraid it's one of mine. I'd have given you one of Arthur's from storage but it's likely fusty, and the last time we moved anything of his, he suspected us of having committed something heinous."  
  
"Heinous? Like what?"  
  
"Who knows, dusting with it or cursing it or mopping up unsavoury bodily fluids." Dylan shakes his head. "Which we had to do once because Michael had cut himself rather badly chopping basil and it was the closest thing on hand. According to Aly, at least."  
  
Llewellyn chuckles and fills the teapot. "Well, I wouldn't want to put him out. This one is perfect." His fingers tease at a loose snarl of his hair, which has begun to form wispy ringlets at the tips thanks to the warmth.  
  
"I think I'll have a bath myself," Dylan says, wiping at his brow and frowning. "So long as you don't mind waiting upstairs, anyway."  
  
"Of course, it's your home, don't worry about me." Llewellyn bites on his lower lip, the mental image of Dylan's flesh burning itself afresh into his mind's eye, but this time with dripping water and rivulets of soap.  
  
"We can finish our tea first, whilst it's hot," Dylan says, pouring the tea into the mugs then sighing contentedly, thankfully with his back to Llewellyn's heated squirming.  
  
Even his hands become a source of wild imaginings, their grip loose around the mugs as he holds one out for Llewellyn to take.  
  
Llewellyn resents his own imagination, because even the way Dylan's mouth moves around the words, "I'm really glad you came, It's nice having company," becomes a thing of complete over stimulation.  
  
"I'm glad too." Llewellyn's voice breaks; clearly a left over scrap of puberty not quite done with him. "You're the best."  
  
Dylan's brows rise expectantly, but whatever he was waiting for seems not to arrive, he ends up fidgeting. "Not the best, I'm sure, but I'm told I can cook a leek to perfection." Dylan sighs as he sits down, then frowns into his mug, "I really miss Aly, which is strange, when he's around he always stands where I want to be or fidgets whilst I'm reading. But without him, this place seems too huge."  
  
Llewellyn sits down beside him, sets the mug on the table, placing a hand on Dylan's back, rubbing gently to try and offer comfort. "I'm sure he'll be back soon."  
  
"And then I'll probably want rid of him again for a while." Dylan forces a smile and leans softly against Llewellyn's side. "Everything feels different without him and around you. Is it strange that I wish I could have things both ways?"  
  
"As the high king of Dalian once said, thou cannot have thine cake and eat it, but neither Alasdair nor I are made of baked goods." Llewellyn pushes his mug away with a finger before shifting his weight and curling one arm around Dylan's back, drawing him into a loose hug with the other. "If Alasdair doesn't want me around, I can always fight him."  
  
Dylan's laughter tickles Llewellyn's neck, but he otherwise remains quiet and still and only moving the slightest bit so he can shift around to get comfortable. His nose and jaw slide against Llewellyn's neck, leaving a tingle of pleasure there that makes Llewellyn shiver.  
  
Dylan jerks away, hands held up apologetically. "Did I hurt you? I'm so sorry."  
  
"No, it's not that, it was…" Llewellyn rubs at the afflicted area with his hand. "I guess my skin is just sensitive."  
  
"Oh." Dylan studies his face carefully, eventually smiling, widening the gap between them. He raises his hand then pulls the loose fabric of the nightshirt over Llewellyn's shoulder. "Your skin is soft, I can imagine why it'd be a little sensitive."  
  
After that they drink their tea and discuss the weather, the patrons at the shop, and nibble a little extra cake, interspersed with jokes and laughter until the tea is gone and for a while they drift into pleasant silence.  
  
"So what's it like inside the palace?" Dylan asks as he stands up. "I imagine it's stunning."  
  
"The ballroom was amazing. There was a picture of Lady Sian,  a huge mirror. It looked like you could dance forever in it. Like the lords and ladies in the old stories."  
  
"It sounds romantic, I'd love to see it."  
  
"I wish you could too." Llewellyn rises to help move the tub. "But I still prefer it here. The palace is beautiful, but parts of it seem lonely, or imposing." The image of the governor's father comes to mind. It's one Llewellyn had attempted to strip away from inside his skull, yet cannot manage to shake, or the strange tang of sadness he sometimes senses beneath the governor's handsome smile.  
  
Llewellyn studies Dylan's face, letting that cleanse the negativity away.  
  
"You alright, Llew?"  
  
Llewellyn nods, but doesn't feel sure it's the truth. "I was just thinking, about how I'm looking forward to dancing with you at the moon festival."  
  
"Dancing? You want to dance? With me?"  
  
"That's part of the celebration." Llewellyn grins at Dylan's bemused, blushing face.  
  
"But why dance with me? I've got two left feet and I'm heavy and awkward. You should dance with somebody worth your time. I'm really…"  
  
Llewellyn places his hand over Dylan's mouth, stifling the flow of self-deprecation, "There's nobody else worth my time to dance with, because I love you." Llewellyn presses a kiss to the back of his hand then removes it from Dylan's mouth. "Enjoy your bath and call me when you're done. I'll give you that harp tutoring I promised."  
  
Dylan stares at him wide eyed and aghast, nodding so slowly that it appears as if he's taken leave of every one of his senses. "Oh, yes. I'll give you a shout… I —" Dylan swallows and shuffles around nervously. "I'll try not to take too long."  
  
"Take all the time you need. There's no rush."  
  
Llewellyn is halfway up the stairs when he realises what he said; how easily it had slipped out. His chest grows aflutter, suddenly nervous that every action had been incorrect.  
  
He curses his lapse in self-control.


	3. Chapter 3

Francis used to breakfast in the formal dining room, sitting alone at the centre of a table which could seat twenty comfortably, and upwards of thirty if one didn't mind occasionally bumping elbows with one's neighbours.  
  
His place was always set with the second-best china and silverware; a fresh bouquet of flowers in a cut-glass vase at its right, a snowy white napkin to the left. A servant would stand discreetly two paces behind him at all times, ready to refresh his plate with food or his cup with tea at the merest beckoning flutter of his fingers.  
  
Following the recent change in his living arrangements, he has preferred to eat all his meals in the sitting room of his chambers, even though the cramped situation of the small table there meant that one occasionally bumped elbows against either sideboard or settee, and thus bruises were an ever-present danger.  
  
This morning, as every morning since then, he meets the servant who has been dispatched from the kitchens in the hallway, takes delivery of the large platter of fruit and oven-warm pastries, and then dismisses him with a quiet, "Thank you, you may go now," and encouraging nod of his head.  
  
This young man, like all the others tasked with this duty of late, lingers for a moment, eyeing him warily and clearly expecting him to change his mind and rescind the order. Francis doesn't blame him for his hesitance, as it had always been his habit in the past to partake of even the humblest meal – down to and including a slice of bread and cheese snatched between one meeting and the next – with someone to wait on him throughout, but he cannot soften to it.  
  
It's unseemly enough that he's allowed his staff to witness that he takes his dinner with his personal guard, but to be seen breaking his fast with him would be beyond the pale.  
  
A firm, "That will be all," finally sends the servant hurrying on his way again, and Francis retires to his sitting room to apportion a share of the platter's contents to the each of the two simple white plates already set out there.  
  
As he carefully picks through the fruit, selecting the plumpest of the strawberries for his corporal's plate, he spares a thought for his maman, and the scandalised expression he is sure would result if she were ever to find out that he now routinely takes it upon himself to serve a 'commoner'.  
  
It's only a very brief thought, as his head soon fills with speculating on whether Aly will like the sacristain as much as the brioche of the previous day, and if he has ever eaten fresh grapes before. Those Francis has seen for sale in the markets of Old Town that purport to be so are tiny, shrivelled things that more closely resemble raisins.  
  
Whether he likes any of the food or no, he will likely grumble about the perceived expense and the very real richness of it all, and insist a plain but nourishing porridge is the best way to fortify a person for the rest of their day. He will still clear his plate, though, down to the last crumb, devouring it all with the eagerness of a man who enjoys fine cuisine even if he lacks the experience and attendant vocabulary to describe it and his vociferous complaints would seem to suggest otherwise.  
  
Francis often finds himself so distracted by watching Aly savouring his food that he forgets to eat his own.  
  
After he has arranged the plates to his satisfaction, Francis turns one ear towards the bathroom in an attempt to judge Aly's progress through his morning routine.  
  
He has taken to the deep tub, very fittingly, like a duck to water, and soaks himself in it long past the point it could reasonably be expected to retain any warmth to speak of. There are no tell-tale splashes to suggest he is still luxuriating in the bath, though, only the faint sounds of cursing.

The first time Francis had heard this now familiar string of expletives, he had feared that his corporal had perhaps slipped on one of the many puddles of water he always manages to drip across the tiled floor on his way to the basin after bathing, and done himself an injury.  
  
Aly had reassured him through the locked door, however, that he was simply fighting with his hair and had found himself on the losing side of the battle. Certainly, when he did finally emerge, his hair was still rumpled in victorious disarray despite the ruddy gleam suffusing every strand which evidenced his careful attention to it.  
  
When they first met, this tonsorial anarchy had faintly horrified Francis, who had thought it indicative of uncleanliness and a sloppy character, but now he finds both it and — he's abashed to admit even to himself — Aly's obvious frustration with it oddly appealing. Corporal Alasdair Kirkland might be unfairly and effortlessly attractive in every other way, but that one imperfection makes him seem less like a walking work of art and wonderfully human instead, even before he opens his mouth to speak and thus dispel such fantasies entirely.  
  
Even so, that does not prevent Francis' hands from twitching with the need to drag a comb – or, more often than not, his fingers – through it, in the hopes of bringing it to heel.  
  
A muffled thump indicates that Aly has admitted defeat and hurled his brush into the sink. It's closely followed by the swoosh of the bathroom door opening, and thereafter Aly's ponderous tread as he slopes back to his bedroom to dress.  
  
Francis' body begins to thrum with an entirely different need at the sound, as he knows that Aly must make this journey clad only in the small towel that he will later leave crumpled in a sodden heap upon his floor.  
  
He has seen Aly half-clothed only once, but his concern for the man's health had been so great at the time that he'd had neither the attention to spare nor the brazen disregard of another's needs required to appreciate the sight. Still, he could not help but _see_ even if he did not then _admire_ , and those dispassionate glimpses coupled with a fertile imagination had painted a picture that has filled Francis' nights with glorious dreams and his mornings with guilt ever since.  
  
It is tempting, so very tempting, to manufacture an excuse to step out into the hallway, and see if his fevered suppositions measure up in any way to reality, but Aly's trust is too precious a gift to be squandered, and Francis knows he would attain no real joy in the act, either way. Such things should be freely given between equals, not stolen for the edification of just one of the participants.  
  
So he concentrates on his breathing, consciously slowing each inhale and exhale – and with it, his racing heart – and by the time Aly joins him in the sitting room, he feels calm enough that he can look towards him with nothing more than a polite smile of welcome and almost complete dispassion.  
  
This hard-won serenity does not long survive the looking, however, as Francis has yet to become inured to the miracle that is Aly clad in his new uniform.  
  
Ever since their first meeting a little over a year ago, Francis has suspected that Alaina must have had some sort of wizardry worked upon her needles and shears. Quite apart from being one of the most efficient tailors it has ever been his pleasure to employ, she can work such magic with the tools of her trade that her clothes flatter even the most awkward or unimpressive of physiques.  
  
On Aly, for whom flattery is laughably redundant, they simply emphasise what nature herself was kind enough to bestow upon him. The coat's epaulettes enhance the already magnificent span of his shoulders, and its cinch draws the eye to his flat stomach and narrow waist. Although the trousers are not quite so form-fitting as the threadbare monstrosities he had brought with him from his apothecary, they still manage to hug his thighs in a way that suggests the strength and heft of them without outlining every last cord of his muscles.  
  
In colour, style, and cut, the uniform is close enough to that of the Gallian infantry that it puts Francis in mind of his time with the army, and thence to imagining how safe and protected he would have felt to have a soldier such as Aly would have made guarding his back in battle.  
  
He walks around his corporal, ostensibly to check that his marvellous uniform has been properly donned in every aspect and remains wrinkle-free, but honestly just delighting in admiring the man from every conceivable angle. Aly obviously believes him fastidious beyond all comprehension as he scowls irritably each time Francis indulges himself in this way, though he has yet to raise any real objections to the practice.  
  
Francis' circling slows when the realisation strikes him – as it always strikes him, yet somehow he forgets it anew each time – that he is mirroring his father's conduct: this measured, deliberate appraisal of appearance that had always made Francis himself feel as though his very bones were being judged and found wanting. There is little comfort to be found in the idea that his thoughts at such times are not as unpleasant as his father's doubtless were as he suspects that Aly would make no such distinction between the two.  
  
Unfortunately, the timing of his revelation and subsequent abrupt halt leaves him standing shoulder to shoulder with Aly, and he can feel the warmth of his body radiating out to skim across his skin. Smell the soap he had so recently used in his ablutions. He's finally stumbled across the bergamot in his explorations of the soap basket, and the sweet, spicy scent suits him just as well as Francis had fancied it would.  
  
Sometimes, being so close to his corporal and knowing that they will probably never be more to one another than they are right now – somewhere that falls uneasily in the space between employer and employee and amicable acquaintances – feels like torture, albeit a bittersweet form.  
  
Even though he cannot be entirely sure that Aly actually likes him, sadly he is the closest Francis has to a friend beyond his family these days. For that, he will endure any hardship, so he steps back, breathes deep again, and gestures towards the table.  
  
"After you," he says.  
  
There is not one man or woman in Britannia entire who could claim the right to seat themselves before Francis, but Aly does so without so much as an attempt at demurral. He takes greater liberties than anyone else would ever dare, but Francis has found himself more annoyed by lordly bows that are a mite shallower than protocol demands than even the most egregious of them.  
  
He sometimes thinks that the man could spit in his face and he'd find some way of construing the behaviour as charming.  
  
"What are these called, then?" Aly asks, picking up one of the pastries and frowning at it as though it's some breed of exotic animal that has inexplicably made its home on his plate.  
  
"Sacristain," Francis says as he settles himself in his own chair.

Aly repeats the name several times, clearly trying to fix it into some annex of his prodigious memory. He speaks Gallian atrociously, but Francis loves to hear him mangling his native tongue, all the same.  
  
He cannot understand now why he ever thought Aly's accent was rough. Listening to the low, rumbling tone of his voice makes him feel as though there are soft fingers being trailed languidly down the length of his spine. He shivers.  
  
"You're not going to have any yourself?" Aly asks, pausing with the sacristain half-raised to his mouth. "Are you feeling all right? You look a little peaky."  
  
Francis notes with some astonishment that the pastry is not only half-raised but half-eaten, too. He must have been staring again. It's no wonder that he's lost sufficient weight these past few days that Madeline has started to worry that he's ill. Eating, regrettably, has fallen somewhat low on his list of priorities during mealtimes of late.  
  
"I'm fine." He pops a grape into his mouth to demonstrate that he has not lost his appetite, and Aly appears somewhat placated. "A little weary, perhaps. I rose early so I could catch M. Jansen before he took his own breakfast."  
  
"Gods, you must have been up with the sun, in that case," Aly says, his broad eyebrows shooting up so high that they almost disappear beneath the tangled snarls of his fringe. "What was so urgent?"  
  
"I wanted to make sure that he would have time to put together the paperwork necessary to make the increase in Mr Walsh's wages official," Francis says. "I intend to travel into town directly after our usual letter reading in order to submit it to the aldermen and arrange for the renovation work on the Bard's Hall to begin."  
  
"And you thought _that_ was important enough to miss out on an hour of sleep?"  
  
The incredulity in Aly's voice is not caused, Francis thinks, by his thinking it improbable that Francis would willingly sacrificing any time in his bed – although his aversion to leaving it has been the topic of Aly's jokes more than once in the past – but that he is still unable to quite believe Francis capable of taking an interest in the bard's affairs, and, by extension, his brother's.  
  
From what little he has had come to know of them during their brief meetings, both the bard and Aly's brother seemed like good men, but shamefully, it is not their fortunes that are foremost in his thoughts.  
  
Given the way Aly speaks of him, it is clear that Dylan's happiness is just as dear to him as his own, if not more so.  
  
"A man's livelihood and future comfort is at stake, Aly," he says solemnly. "I can think of little that is more important than that."

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
The aldermen had asked Francis three times if he was sure that he wanted his order to go into effect, and explained to him twice, in the painstaking manner of people trying to explain the intricacies of pure mathematics to a small child, that the office of bard was obsolescent, a relic, a tradition that was centuries past what should have been its natural end.  
  
Francis got the impression that they found it something of an embarrassment and were rather hoping that it would fade into complete irrelevancy along with its current incumbent.  
  
It was only when Francis vouched to pay for all expenses out of his own pocket that they finally relented to add their signatures to the document.  
  
Francis carefully rolls the paper, fastens it with a length of blue ribbon and his own fleur-de-lys seal set in red wax, and transports it, with as much pomp and ceremony as his barouche will allow, to the Bard's Hall.

Once there, he raps on the rain-swollen door with the pommel of his governor's sword and waits for a reply.  
  
A minute or so later, he raps, waits and listens again, but still hears no sound of life within the mouldering pile.  
  
When he raises his sword to knock a third time, Aly catches his elbow and holds him still. "I don't think that wood can stand up to anymore battering," he says. "I'm surprised that it hasn't disintegrated already. I'm guessing the bard isn't actually here, in any case."  
  
"Perhaps he's already left to start his work for the day, and we might catch up with him elsewhere in town?" Francis suggests.  
  
"I can't imagine who in the hells would need a bard's attentions at half past ten in the morning, although..." Aly hurriedly drops his hand from Francis' arm, and his cheeks turn a very interesting shade of puce. "Mikey did say that he's being staying over at the apothecary occasionally whilst I've been gone."  
  
"Oh, maybe they don't need my help after all," Francis says, chuckling at the outraged expression that briefly crosses his corporal's face. "They sound as though they're managing quite well enough on their own."  
  
"Dyl gives up his bed to the bard and sleeps in mine, or so I'm told," Aly says, glowering at Francis as though he's somehow betrayed him by finding any amusement in these apparently very trying circumstances. "Anyway, we might do well to look for him there, instead."  
  
"By 'we' I presume you mean you'll go there yourself," Francis says, his shoulders sagging slightly in dejection. He'd been rather looking forward to seeing firsthand how the bard reacts to the news of his pay rise.  
  
Aly cocks his head to one side, and levels Francis with a considering stare. "Naw," he says, eventually. Surprisingly. Amazingly. "I would have thought you'd want to be there when the bard hears about this, seeing as though it's all been your doing. We'll go together."  
  
Francis has to wonder what has prompted this sudden and miraculous change of heart, but he certainly isn't going to tempt fate by questioning it.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
When Llewellyn awakens it's with a surge of tired confusion more than anything he can otherwise name. He recalls having an unsettling dream that's broken him out in a nervous sweat, its details, however, have eroded like the fragile sandstone that supposedly composes most of the houses of those who reside near the coast.  
  
He refuses to get up, hoping nobody can sense his wakened state and studies the ceiling, trying to piece together the dream from the parts that remain. Whatever beast it had been it's little more than a scattering of scavenged bones that give him murky idea at best. A sharp tooth of a scream here, a claw of a panicking woman there, but otherwise it's a pointless waste of effort.  
  
It's likely for the best, the apprehension is still lingering in his chest, like the funk of death that he's heard can haunt a person for years.  
  
Instead of trying to dredge up something that he's sure will be regretted he turns his thoughts forcefully towards all he remembers of last night. The way he'd let himself amend Dylan's posture as he played, not with words and demonstrations but light touches.  
  
The very subtle way Dylan had become willingly sloppy, seeming to encourage it without wanting to admit so.  
  
Llewellyn can't help feeling giddy, hugging the covers close and biting back his glee, despite the tiredness that still forms a soft ache under his eyes. It's an ache that isn't helped by the light that slithers in through the window and of course the birds, which have already started to—

 _Sing_.

The realisation makes him bolt upright, almost falling out of bed when the time of day finally occurs to him, forcing Llewellyn to throw on his clothing, make the bed then scamper down the stairs with folded nightshirt in hand.  
  
Dylan's polite enquiry of how he slept is interupted by a headlong on the stairs and  Llewellyn is saved from falling on his arse, quickly stabilised from falling on his arse. Apparently Llewellyn is so light that he barely shifts Dylan's sturdy frame.  
  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sleep so long." He tries to rub the sleep away of his eyes, which are tacky and heavy even now. "I'm running so late."  
  
"It's still quite early. Would you like some breakfast? We have plenty of porridge and bread for toast. Although you might need to fight Michael for it."  
  
"No, no, I really need to get going. I have to get to the tailor's and then I have to get to the court. It'll take forever to get all that work done."  
  
"You'll probably get more done if you eat something," Dylan forcibly takes a hold of Llewellyn and pushes him into the kitchen. It smells of hot milk, toasted bread and melting butter. "Besides, you have all day, what's a half hour's breakfast?"  
  
The tea is thrust into his hand then the nightshirt he was clutching is gently excised. A few sips of the liquid makes Llewellyn very aware of his unkempt hair, lack of shoes, and the intense hunger that suddenly makes him shiver from lack of energy.  
  
"I hope you slept well." Dylan sets down a plate and bustles around cleaning and arranging items as he darts back and forth with Llewellyn's eyes following him lazily as he eats –speedily at first, only slowing when his hunger becomes less all consuming.- "I'd have woken you but you looked rather content. Seemed a shame to wake you for the sake of it."  
  
"It was so warm. It made me very happy." Llewellyn sweeps his spoon gently to visualise his content morning. "I'll resent leaving."  
  
Dylan dries at a beaker with a threadbare cloth, his eyes lowering and his throat clearing. "You know, you could—"  
  
"Dyl! You there?" Alasdair's voice rings out. His feet are heavy on the floor, making the boards groan under his weight and careless stride.  
  
The voice makes Dylan beam instantly and forget his train of thought. "In here, Aly. We're having breakfast."  
  
"Great, put the kettle..." Alasdair freezes up upon setting eyes on Llewellyn.  
  
Llewellyn opens his mouth to greet him, but finds that words refuse to come out. He suddenly feels intrusive and unwanted.  
  
"Bonjour, Monsieur Kirkland," a familiar silky voice says without hesitation. "Ah, Mr Walsh, just who we were searching for. You weren't at the hall this morning."  
  
Llewellyn offers a nervous nod as his grip tightens around the spoon he's holding.  
  
Dylan bows deeply and springs into the motion of searching for a decent mug, getting caught up in his own frantic energy as he whips himself into a talkative lather. He pauses when he notices the silence of those around him and carefully places a defensive hand on Llewellyn's shoulder. "Llew delivered the item you told him to, so it made sense to have him stay here. Safer, Your Highness, all things considered."  
  
The governor nods with feigned enthusiasm, but concern and understanding never reach his posture or glint his eyes. "I see, that's understandable. Very smartly done." The governor looks Llewellyn over, one eyebrow rising in interest, tinged with amusement. "Just woken up have you, Bard?'  
  
Llewellyn's hand slides to his hair, which is a tangle of bed-headed fluff and little curls. "Yes, Your Highness. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to fall behind in—"  
  
"Mr Walsh, you have plenty of time. I didn't come here to hound you."  
  
Llewellyn swiftly ties his hair back with the ribbon at his wrist; embarrassed by the figure he must be cutting. He never recalls his master being seen in such a state by anybody outside the hall.  
  
"I see you weren't exaggerating about that hall of yours being unimpressive." The governor accepts a mug of tea when it's given to him but carefully avoids drinking more than he has to. "I imagine it was quite fine in its time."  
  
Llewellyn nods, tasting the lack of interest that runs under the surface of the Princes tone, disliking it as much as always. His eyes linger on Alasdair before his gaze drops to the floor. "I know I should have stayed but —"  
  
"As I've said, I'm not here to punish you, on the contrary I wished to give you an update on my decisions regarding your post."  
  
Llewellyn stands slowly, edging closer till he's a respectful distance away. Despite the overwhelming positivity in the governor's tone, he feels faint and sickly.  
  
"I've carefully reviewed your work and decided that the bard's hall should be restored to its former glory, in order that it better aid the people of Deva. It's not much use to anybody – let alone myself – in the sorry state it's in."  
  
Llewellyn strains to pick out every nuance of the words, his hand rising instinctively to his mouth to hold in the yelp that he feels forming. "But, Your Highness, the bard's office is redundant. Everybody thinks so. There's really no need to…"  
  
"I've already paid for it. Corporal Kirkland was my witness. Isn't that so?"  
  
Alasdair nods and rests himself against the counter beside Dylan. "Aye, took a while as well."  
  
"The hall will be restored, allowing for it to house any foreign ambassadors and so on who may need a place to stay. And you will keep me informed on the issues that seem to slip past me regarding Old Town." The governor sips the tiniest bit of tea for a dramatic pause. "I seem to have an overwhelming number of officials whose interest lies elsewhere. This of course means you'll be on my pay roll, and your salary will be raised to fifty silvers a week." He smiles proudly to himself. "That should be more than enough to keep you warm and well fed."  
  
Llewellyn feels his breath hitch and his eye twinge uncomfortably. He voices a useless squeak of distress that bursts the governor's smug expression. "But, Your Highness, my position is completely redundant. Nobody wants a bard around, especially not one like me. It's a waste of money to put anything back into it. I might have done something useful recently but it's the only good I've ever done." His heart feels like a lump of rock, crushing the air from his lungs by the sheer weight of its increasing speed. "I'm barely worth the coppers I currently get, and I don't mind because I'm useless and pointless and… Nobody needs somebody like me, especially not yourself."  
  
He can feel the guilt and shame pour out of him, so hot that his eyes can't even shed tears and his throat begins hurting so intensely that any further words are halted by the sudden stabbing pain that forms there.  
  
The governor's eyebrows have risen like bread dough. He looks like a man who's discovered some strange animal he's never seen before.  
  
"I'd just be a disappointment like I was to my father, and no help at all. I might have been useful this one time but—" Llewellyn backs away, the desire to flee so intense that he might have backed himself into a corner if Dylan hadn't taken a hold of his shoulder. "I'm not the sort of person Deva needs. I'm happy as I am, because it's all I deserve."  
  
Dylan's hand tightens and he tugs Llewellyn slightly to shift his focus, "Your Highness, may I?"  
  
The governor nods, allowing Dylan to forcibly drag Llewellyn aside, holding his shoulders so tight that it begins to hurt. "Llewellyn, relax, look at me." His tone is harsh and painful to hear, then it softens to a wonderful calm. "Relax, you're just a little overwhelmed by all this."  
  
"Dylan, I can't. I'm so weak and I —"  
  
"Take a deep breath." If Llewellyn's tears are dammed up behind his eyes, Dylan's seem to overflow. "Listen to me, that master of yours was no father."  
  
"My real parents threw me away and the only thing I'm good at is plucking at a harp. Even when I was little I was nothing but a pain to my brothers. How am I supposed to be any good to a _Prince_?"  
  
"You've already proven you're amazing. He's paying you what you deserve. You'll have a warm place to sleep, and good food. The hall won't be full of spores and mould. That's the only thing that's changing. You're already great at what you do. But this way you can be healthy whilst you're doing it." Dylan eases Llewellyn into a gentle hug, squeezing just tightly enough.  
  
"What if I can't handle the responsibility? What if I'm not strong enough? I'll let everybody down. Working directly for the governor means there'll be so much more pressure."  
  
Dylan tightens his grip. "I'll still be here. And I believe in you because I--think you're perfect—at your job." Dylan slides a hand through Llewellyn's hair, "And if it means anything, I know my parents would have thought you were amazing. They'd be proud of you and want you to take every opportunity you could."  
  
"I don't want things to change. I know I can handle things as they are."  
  
"We'll handle it together, okay? We'll find a way." Dylan loosens his grip, giving Llewellyn the option to slip away. "The shop will always be here, and you'll always be welcome."  
  
Llewellyn feels something heavy shift its weight, not quite leaving his chest in peace, but allowing him to breathe. "You'll come to the hall too, won't you?"  
  
"Of course I will. If you want me to."  
  
"Always."

 

* * *

  
  
  
Making tea, Dylan finds, is more calming than all but the most powerful of the sedative herbs in his stores.  
  
He remembers making cup after cup after cup in the first few fraught and dreadful days after Ma disappeared, and he and Arthur haunted the kitchen for hours on end whilst they waited for Alasdair to return from his day's search for her, alternately trying to soothe Michael's anguished wailing and endlessly rehashing what they knew of Ma's movements that fateful morning in an attempt to piece together a narrative which would make something approaching sense out of their loss.  
  
Most of the tea had sat on the table untouched until it became so cold and stewed that it was worthless for anything but throwing out into back yard in the hope that it might nourish the plants there and save it from going entirely to waste. Nevertheless, Dylan would brew a fresh pot almost immediately afterwards, because the small, unimportant tasks of drawing water, feeding the stove, and measuring out the dried leaves served as a welcome release from the darkness of his own thoughts and occupied his hands so that he couldn't instead indulge in his anxious habit of gnawing on his fingers until they bled.  
  
Today, they distract him from the impulse to interfere; to intrude where his counsel is likely neither wanted nor needed. To wrap his arms around Llewellyn until the panicked look of fear in his eyes retreats and they soften once more.  
  
As he wipes clean their few cups in preparation for refilling them, he looks towards the other end of the kitchen, where the prince and Llewellyn are deep in conversation. Their voices are too low to make out any of their words, but whatever the prince is saying does not seem to be helping ease Llewellyn's mind. His skin is still bloodlessly pale, his face drawn with tense, unhappy lines.  
  
Dylan's entire body aches with the need to hold him, so he forces himself to concentrate again on the tea, and the simple repetitious movements of pouring it out, apportioning milk, and stirring in honey makes the feeling gradually fade away.  
  
"Here," he says, picking up one of the finished cups and holding it out to Alasdair. "Three spoonfuls of honey, just the way you like it. I'm surprised your teeth haven't rotted out of your head yet."  
  
It's an old, tired rebuke, one that Dylan has levelled against Alasdair near every day of their adult lives, but like the routine of tea-making itself, it is comfortingly familiar. Normally, Alasdair would bare his thoroughly healthy teeth, make his own stale retort about Dylan's needless worrying, and then they would bicker good-naturedly back and forth until their conversation naturally drifted onto other matters.  
  
Today, however, Alasdair gives no indication that he's even heard Dylan speaking. His eyes are fixed intently on the prince and Llewellyn, and everything about his lack of reaction and the faint frown ridging his brow seems so horribly peculiar and foreign and wrong that Dylan is assailed by the bizarre fear that it isn't his brother standing next to him at all, but some stranger who bears a remarkable likeness to him.  
  
Alasdair has been so unwavering and dependable since Ma was taken from them that, at times, he has felt like the only solid thing that Dylan has – that they _all_ have – so the ridiculous stray thought is far more terrifying than it has any right to be.  
  
Whilst he is happy for Llewellyn, proud of him, the prince's news will doubtless change his life irrevocably. Both their lives, perhaps. He needs Alasdair to be the anchor he's always been, because change, for good or for ill, has always unsettled him, and the prospect that his brother's recent sojourn at the palace may have already altered him is one Dylan dare not contemplate too deeply for the sake of his nerves.  
  
Without meaning to, he must make some small noise of hurt or distress, regardless, as Alasdair flinches as though he's been struck, and turns every speck of his attention towards him in an instant.  
  
He stares at him for a brief spell, considering, then cups one of his huge hands around the back of Dylan's head, urging him forward with gentle but inexorable force until Dylan's brow is pillowed against his shoulder.  
  
In his haste to circle his arms reciprocally around Alasdair's back, Dylan almost forgets that he's still holding tea. Luckily, a small droplet of the scalding liquid splashes against his own wrist as the cup begins to tip, reminding him to hurriedly set it aside before he sinks into his brother's embrace.  
  
Close to, he smells as different as his behaviour had appeared – the sharp, spicy tang of bergamot replacing his usual scent of coal tar, sword oil, and the dust he kicks up during his patrols – and the fabric his strange new uniform is made from feels soft and smooth against Dylan's skin; far finer, and likely far more expensive, than any clothes he's worn before.  
  
But his arms are as strong as they've ever been, the steady beat of his heart sounds just the same, and the tension Dylan hadn't even noticed had wound its insidious way throughout his body slowly seeps away.  
  
"Don't worry, Dyl," Alasdair says gruffly. "Whatever he's telling your bard, it won't be anything bad."

"How can you be so sure?"  
  
"His Highness is..." Alasdair swallows heavily. "He's far kinder than I expected. Than I gave him credit for. He just wants to help the bard. And you."  
  
"Why me? He barely even knows me."  
  
And he doubts that he made a very good impression on the two occasions they had met previously. He vaguely recalls that he talked far too much, but his mind has protectively drawn a discreet, hazy veil over those memories, hiding most of the details beyond the reach of his conscious recollection, so they merely serve to embarrass rather than mortify him.  
  
"Like I said, he's kinder than you'd expect," Alasdair says.  
  
Dylan's attempted nod is swiftly curtailed by a sudden, chilling realisation that not only freezes him in place, but makes him want to sink into the floor, turn invisible or explode into a cloud of dust and be carried away on the wind. Anything that might aid him in escaping both it and subsequently the prince's notice once he finishes his discussion with Llewellyn.    
  
"And how, exactly, would repairing the Bard's Hall and increasing Llew's pay help me?" he asks warily.  
  
"You and the bard, you're..." Alasdair's twitch convulsively, tangling themselves for a moment in Dylan's hair. "I know money's been holding you back, but if you do want to start courting, then –"  
  
Dylan wrenches himself away from his brother with such determined violence that Alasdair staggers back a step, almost losing his balance.  
  
After a quick glance towards Llewellyn to ensure that neither Alasdair's clumsy feet or the sound of that forbidden word has attracted his notice, he hisses, "And you told the prince about that?"  
  
"Aye," Alasdair says bluntly.  
  
He doesn't look in the least bit contrite, though Dylan doesn't know why he'd even expected him to. Alasdair always tries to fix any and all of the troubles that might have cause to vex Dylan, and his romantic inertia probably seems to him to be an inconvenience no different than any other that he's taken it upon himself to set to rights in the past. Given his nature, he can be somewhat clueless when it comes to matters of the heart, and likely believes that his normal, direct approach to problem-solving can be applied to them just the same as any other.  
  
As his own heart was no doubt in the right place, Dylan cannot find it within himself to stay annoyed at him.  
  
"You were a little premature there, Aly," he says, sighing. "Llew and I haven't even had that discussion ourselves yet."  
  
"Well, now you have one less thing to worry about when you do," Alasdair says in a firm, decisive way that Dylan recognises as a sign that those will be his last words on the subject. Seemingly to further underline this conclusion, he picks up the cup that Dylan had hastily set down on the counter near his elbow, and takes a sip from it. His nostrils flare in distaste, and he asks suspiciously, "How much honey did you put in this?"  
  
"Three spoonfuls," Dylan says, and then, because the sentence rolls so naturally off his tongue afterwards: "I'm surprised your teeth haven't rotted out of your head yet."  
  
To his relief, Alasdair smiles broadly, putting his perfect dentition on sparkling display. "See," he says, "I'm all good. Hells, if there isn't something real for you to worry about, you can't rest until you invent something, can you?"  
  
"Now, that's hardly fair. I –"  
  
"Mr Kirkland, Corporal, I'm afraid I'm going to have to interrupt you for a moment."  
  
The prince's voice sounds unexpectedly close, given that Dylan hadn't heard so much of a whisper of his approach. When he spins on his heel to offer a bow, he is even more surprised when the prince returns it; so much so that his throat tightens up along with the rest of his muscles, rendering him momentarily incapable of speech.  
  
"What is it, sir?" Alasdair is therefore forced to ask in his stead.  
  
"Mr Walsh has just stepped outside for a breath of fresh air," the prince says, and to Dylan specifically, he adds, "He asked to be given some time alone, though he wanted you to know that he would not be gone long."  
  
The ache Dylan had thought safely dispelled starts to grow again, though he does his best to ignore it. Llewellyn would not be pleased, he's certain, if he were to go against his express wishes and rush after him, and the only benefit to it would be Dylan's own, which strikes him as more than a little unfair.  
  
The only comfort he can seek for the time being is thus doomed to be second-hand, and to that end he asks the prince, "How did he seem before he went, Your Highness?"  
  
"Still a little rattled." The prince pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and then asks Alasdair, "Did I do the right thing? I never meant to upset him. I thought he would be pleased."  
  
Alasdair chuckles, and then, to Dylan's astonishment, knocks his shoulder against the prince's as though he's an ordinary sort of man, and not an Imperial official who could have him thrown into gaol at the merest suggestion of an assault upon his person.  
  
"I'm sure he'll come to terms with being a rich man soon enough," he says dryly. "It's doubtless just come as a bit of a shock to the system, right, Dyl?"  
  
The prince not only does not look to have taken offence at Alasdair's rough treatment of him, he even appears to move into the contact slightly before stepping away again. It's a sight that goes so far beyond astonishing that it enters the realms of the fantastical, and Dylan would have considered it impossible if he had not witnessed it happening at such close quarters that he can't hope to pretend it was nothing more than a trick of his eyes.  
  
"Right," he echoes distractedly.  
  
For the first time, he wonders if the rumours that have been circulating about Alasdair of late have a tiny grain of truth about them. Albeit surely only on the prince's part, if anything, as he can't countenance Alasdair changing _that_ much in less than a week.  
  
"Maybe I should have prepared him better?" the prince says, clearly unimpressed by Dylan's tepid agreement. "Do you think he really will come to terms with it, given time, Mr Kirkland? I can have the orders rescinded if you think that will be for the best."  
  
Dylan hopes that he can persuade Llewellyn that his work – that _he_ – is worth all the coin that the prince wants to give him and more, but lacks sufficient confidence in his chances of success to allow him to give the prince the assurance his so obviously needs.  
  
"I really don't know what to do for the best," he says, his eyes straying, unbidden but longing, towards the front of the apothecary. "I'm sorry, Your Highness."  
  
Alasdair looks between him and the prince, and then throws up his hands with a growl of frustration. "For fuck's sake, the two of you look as though you're at a sodding funeral," he says. "Dylan, I'm sure he'll be back soon enough, then you can coddle him to your heart's content, if it'll make the both of you feel better. And Francis" – he wheels around to face the prince – "stop fretting. You did a good thing, and I've no doubt the bard will realise that once he's had time to calm down."  
  
Dylan cringes on Alasdair's behalf over his unceremonious slip of the tongue, as his brother seems not to have noticed it, nor, he imagines, would he feel the proper amount of shame for this egregious break from proper protocol even were he aware of it. Alasdair has never put a great deal of stock in formalities, dismissing them pretty much wholesale as 'pointless bowing and scraping'.  
  
Thankfully, the prince seems not to have noticed Alasdair's faux pas, either. He simply smiles softly and says, "I certainly hope so."  
  
"Right, that's that sorted, then." Alasdair downs the rest of his tea in one long gulp, and then slams the empty cup down hard on the countertop. "Now, I'm heading off out."  
  
"Aly..." Dylan begins warningly, but Alasdair silences him with a brisk shake of his head.  
  
"I'm not intending on bothering the bard," he says. "I'm going to Isabelle's to see about buying the biggest, most expensive cake she has in stock."  
  
"What?" Dylan asks, almost simultaneously with the prince's, "Why?"  
  
Alasdair huffs irritably, clearly almost out of patience with both of them. "Because I, for one, think the bard's raise is something worth celebrating," he says, "even if the rest of you don't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Nekoian: I apologise that the updates on this are sporadic. I'm currently unwell and doubting the quality of my work. The amount of nice feedback I've received on this has boosted my self esteem and I'm grateful to everyone who have commented in this in it's various stages. Thank you all. You're wonderful.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Nekoian: I apologise again for the slow updates. I've been pretty brain sick.

Alasdair has only taken a few strides away from the apothecary when he hears its front door opening behind him. He turns, expecting to see Dylan hurrying after him to remonstrate that purchasing a cake is quite the most despicable thing he's ever set out to do, but is faced instead with the prince, who looks just as put out as Alasdair had imagined his brother would be.  
  
"Corporal, you can't very well guard me when we're in two separate locations, now, can you?" the prince says, half-laughing the words in a way that Alasdair has already come to recognise as evidence that he is actually the exact opposite of amused.  
  
"I'm sure you'll be quite safe here, sir," Alasdair says. "I know Dyl might not look like much of a fighter, but he's got a mean right hook on him if he's been riled. I've seen him take down men twice his size more than once. Besides, I'm just popping down the road a way. I doubt even you can get yourself into that much trouble in five minutes."  
  
He waves encouragingly towards the apothecary, but the prince responds by moving forwards instead of back, drawing close to Alasdair's side.  
  
"I've barely seen anything of Deva, especially Old Town." The prince tilts his head up so he can look Alasdair straight in the eye. "A deplorable state of affairs for its governor, don't you think? And surely the best way of getting to know it better is actually walking its streets, rather than just rattling through it in a carriage?"  
  
Whilst Alasdair cannot dispute that, he isn't convinced that it's the true reason for the prince's desire to accompany him. More than likely, he simply doesn't want to be left alone with Dylan and thus doom himself to becoming a captive audience for all of his worries about the bard. Or, worse yet, should the bard chose to come back any time soon, he'd be forced to bear witness to the outpouring of mushiness that is bound to ensue from that reunion, lacking any decent excuse to absent himself from Dylan then.  
  
Alasdair can hardly blame him for not wanting to expose himself to any of it. "I'm not sure that watching me buy a cake will give you any great insight into your subjects, but if you think it'll help, then, sure, you can come with me, if you want," he says magnanimously.  
  
"It should be educational, regardless," the prince says, falling into easy step with Alasdair as he begins walking again. "The only shop I've visited in Deva apart from your apothecary is Alaina's, and I can't recall ever putting so much as a foot inside somewhere that sells food, even in Lutetia or Augustodonum."  
  
"Really?" Alasdair asks. "And here was me thinking that you Gallians spent half your lives eating out at those cafes and restaurants that you're so very adamant are the very best the Empire has to offer. You've never done that?"  
  
"Of course I have. What I meant was that I've never shopped for the raw ingredients of food, as it were."  
  
"I don't suppose you will be now, either. Bread, cakes, and the like aren't really what I'd call 'raw ingredients', either."  
  
"Are you being deliberately obtuse?" the prince asks, sounding suspicious.  
  
"Naw, just pedantic," Alasdair says, offering the prince a smile which he does eventually return, though it looks somewhat grudgingly bestowed. "So, I guess you've never had to cook for yourself, then. Why on earth you learn how to do it?"  
  
"Maman is of the opinion that cookery is just as much an art as painting or music." The prince's smile softens into a far more genuine-looking one, as it always does when his thoughts turn to his ma. "She would no more have neglected my education in it than she would in either of those other disciplines. Anyone can make food that sustains mind and body, Corporal, but a true artisan can create dishes that nourish the soul, too."  
  
Alasdair has never eaten better food than that which he's been served at the palace, but even the best of it hadn't approached being what he'd describe as a spiritual experience. "Sounds like a bit of a tall order, sir."  
  
"Nonsense," the prince says. "There's one recipe in particular that I... Well, I shall prepare it for you one day, and you can see for yourself. I wept when I first tasted it."  
  
"Honestly?"  
  
"Honestly."  
  
Alasdair can scarcely credit it, but the prince's expression does seem to be sincere. Still, there could yet be a more rational explanation for this otherwise completely irrational behaviour. "Was it full of hot spices, or –"  
  
"It was not," the prince says firmly. "Have you never found anything so shockingly beautiful that it moved you to tears?"  
  
"Naw, I can't say that I have. Look, I haven't cried since..."  
  
Upon looking towards the prince to better emphasise his point, Alasdair notices that, despite having walked this exact route at least three mornings a week for the past ten years, he has somehow overshot Isabelle's bakery entirely. With a muttered apology for interrupting their conversation, he places one hand at the prince's elbow and steers him back the way they'd come for a little way.  
  
Thankfully, the shop proves a great enough lure for the prince's attention that he has none to spare for the embarrassed flush that Alasdair can feel rising to his face. He stops dead in front of it, and his mouth gapes a little, as if in awe. Alasdair hopes to the gods that he doesn't find the sight beautiful.  
  
"Shall we go inside?" the prince asks eventually. He sounds about as excited as a child on Yuletide morning.  
  
Alasdair pauses for a moment to study the bakery himself before answering, but, try as he might, he cannot see a single thing that might have captivated the prince so thoroughly. Granted, the slowly swinging sign above the door has been touched up in recent memory, so the stalk of wheat and Isabelle's name that are painted upon it stand out clearly instead of having long-since faded into indecipherability like the 'Kirkland' surmounted pestle and mortar has at the apothecary. And, granted, Isabelle has more of an artistic eye than Dylan, so her window display of plaster loaves and flour sacks looks far more appealing than his jumble of dusty bottles. Nevertheless, the building itself is no different to its neighbours, nor really any other in Old Town: just a two up, two down stone terrace house, out of which a little space has been carved to peddle its owner's wares.  
  
Alasdair shakes his head, baffled. "Aye," he says. "Come on, then."  
  
One definite advantage that Isabelle's shop does have, however, is its smell: a warm, doughy, piquant blend of yeast, sugar, and cinnamon. As it always does, it sets Alasdair's stomach to growling as soon as he catches scent of it.  
  
The merry tinkling of the bell set above the door diverts Isabelle from the fat, leather-bound ledger she has spread out open on the counter, and she grins at Alasdair in welcome. "This is a turn-up for the books, Aly," she says. "I don't usually see you at..."  
  
She stumbles into silence as the prince wanders up behind Alasdair, and her hands move almost too quickly for Alasdair to track; first darting to her hair, in an effort to dust away the flour coating it, and then down to her apron, to smooth out some of its wrinkles.  
  
She gives a curtsey then, but even after she straightens up again, her eyes remain downcast. "Your Highness," she says to the toes of the prince's shiny boots.  
  
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, _Madame_ ," the prince says, bowing deeply.  
  
Isabelle shoots Alasdair a quick, pained glance that seems to beseech him for an explanation of why, exactly, he's turned up without so much as a word of warning with a Gallian prince in tow, and why, the second, yet more distressed glance begs, is said prince now taking such an inordinate amount of interest in my bread rolls?  
  
"We're here to buy a cake for the bard," Alasdair tells her. "He's just found out he's getting a pay rise, so we thought it'd be nice to have a bit of a celebration in his honour."  
  
"Oh." Isabelle looks nonplussed, no doubt wondering what in the many hells would induce a prince to give two shits about Llewellyn's fortune, whether it be good, bad, or indifferent. "Oh, I'll... I'll see what I've got that might be suitable."  
  
Once she's bustled away, the prince beckons Alasdair over to join him in his examination of the basket full of bread he's been admiring. "They look very appetising, don't they?" he says in a hushed, reverential tone. "Especially this one." He points to a small, brown roll with a gleaming crust. "A honey glaze, if I'm not mistaken."  
  
"Undoubtedly," Alasdair says, nodding sagely.  
  
"And this one would be egg white, and this one, a milk wash." The prince smiles to himself. "All lovely, in their own ways. I don't suppose you know where Mlle. Isabelle was trained, do you, Corporal?"  
  
"Right here, by her ma or da, I imagine." Alasdair shrugs. "Or perhaps an uncle or aunt. That's the way of things with most people in Old Town."  
  
The prince's eyebrows climb to their zenith. "I see," he says. "I had supposed that she –"  
  
"I don't have much I can offer you, I'm afraid, Your Highness," Isabelle calls out as she returns from the back of the shop. "I do most of my trade first thing in the morning, so I have little left by this time of the day."  
  
The tray she's carrying has three cakes set upon it, each one as wide as a dinner plate and about half that length in height. One appears to be a sponge of some description, oozing jam in the middle and delicately dusted with sugar on top. The second is a fruit cake; dark, rich, and likely sodden with brandy. The last is covered with smooth white icing with a garland of lush fondant flowers twined around its circumference.  
  
The prince exclaims in delight over each, and then proceeds to ask Isabelle a long series of questions about their manufacture that are so tediously complex and obsessed with the minutiae of her methods that Alasdair's mind soon makes the executive decision to tune out the sound of his voice for its own protection.  
  
His hearing returns in an abrupt rush when the prince claps his hands together and says, "I'll take all three. I'd like to take five of your rolls, too, if I may. The brown one with the honey glaze, and four more of your choosing. Whichever you'd recommend."  
  
"I... Of course, Your Highness," Isabelle stammers. She looks astonished, but then it's likely that she very seldom has customers who would buy so much in a single transaction. "I'll pack them up for you straight away."  
  
Isabelle wraps the bread and cakes in paper, and then places the packages in a small, open-topped crate that she then hands to the prince. He takes it from her with exuberant thanks, but as soon as they step out on to the street once more, he presses it into Alasdair's arms.  
  
"Personal guard _and_ pack mule," Alasdair grouses. "I don't think I _am_ being paid enough, after all."  
  
"Ah, so mercenary, Corporal. I'm wounded." One corner of the prince's mouth quirks upwards slightly. "I would happily take the burden myself, I assure you, but I need to keep my hands free."  
  
"What for?"  
  
"You'll no doubt accuse me of simply having got a taste for shopping now – and perhaps you could be right – but I want to do more of it. Whilst your brother's tea is delicious, and I'm sure it would make an excellent accompaniment to Mlle. Isabelle's cakes on its own, I got to thinking as I was talking to her that they would surely taste even better as the grace note to a fine meal."  
  
Alasdair groans. "The cakes alone cost more than Dyl and I would spend on food in a week. We don't need anything more, sir."  
  
"I'm sure you don't, but, as I said before, food doesn't have to be solely about need. It can be something that's enjoyed for its own sake, both in its eating and its cooking. And I do so enjoy cooking, though I seldom have the chance to do so nowadays. It would be my pleasure to prepare a meal for you."  
  
He cocks his head to the side a little and looks so pathetically pleading that Alasdair doesn't have the heart to protest again. "All right, then," he says. "If that's what you want. Nothing extravagant, mind."  
  
"Of course not, Corporal," the prince says, beaming happily. "I know your tastes well enough by now that I wouldn't dream otherwise. The dish I have in mind is simple enough. It won't make you weep, but I very much hope it will make you smile."

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
Oliver parts ways with Branislava after a day of explaining to the newcomer the best folks to trade with, the shortcuts and the general order of things that save the most time and earn the most coin.  
  
He arrives back to the Antler earlier than usual, earning a few familiar greetings from the patrons and a quick glance from Richard. Oliver has learned from years of service not to take it to heart when his elder remains silent and brooding over his books or cleaning or stares vacantly into the fireplace.  
  
"I want you to watch the bar, I have brewing and bottling to do." Richard is studying his books, failing to  look up. "Then I'm running my taxes again."  
  
"You did them yesterday."  
  
"One should double check everything, Oliver. The sooner you learn that, the sooner you stop flooding the bottles. One more overflow like the last one and you'll destroy the bar."  
  
Oliver peeks at the ledger to avoid further comment on the sticky residue that still clings to the floorboards. Reading, however, is not something Oliver cares much for and even if that had been the case he has in on good understanding that Richards method of recording data is as confusing for those who _can_ read as it is for him.

Richard uses various long sums, coded messages and something called 'mirror writing' that seems born from his desire for order and symmetry. His various books often leaving even the stout of mind baffled. Whether or not that happens to be a mark of genius or insanity is hotly debated. 

"I want you to stack the clean glasses under the bar," Richard tells him when it's clear his previous scolding has been ignored, "label and cork the bottles from the store and take the crates of empty bottles around back for cleaning. Can you handle all that?"   
  
Oliver rolls his eyes with great purpose. "It's _me_ you're talking to. I can do anything."  
  
Richard's eyebrows rise, a look of retort passing over his face. "Give me a shout if anything unsavoury happens," he says as he flips the book closed, taking an extended second or two to twist a bottle till the label is to his liking on the back shelf.  
  
"I will." Oliver moves to locate the wire fastenings for the corks and the little tub of glue for the labels. "Uncle Rich, is it okay if I make dinner tonight? Da said he probably wasn't going to be home."  
  
Richard tuts loudly,  muttering vile curses under his breath, "Yes, of course you can. I'll make sure the spare bed is made if you—"  
  
"I want to go home. Just hate eating by myself."  
  
There's some hint of a guilty expression slathered across his uncle's face, one that needs to be wiped away with a rough swipe of a hand. "You're as stubborn as he is, you know that?"  
  
"Course."  
  
With a shake of his head Richard departs, leaving Oliver to his work – with pauses to refresh drinks, clean a table or store away dirty glasses and bottles in a crate for further cleaning later.  
  
It's the usual pattern of his early shift, until the busy periods that come the later hours, when Richard and Oliver work together to keep things moving and orderly. But at this time of day, everything is so sluggish that Oliver could go for a walk around the main square and miss nothing of substance.  
  
The Antler runs on a different time zone than the rest of town and Oliver has always been grateful for the time he's given to ply his other trades, even if he sometimes finds the work less than colourful at the best of times.   
  
He ignores the creak of floorboards as they approach the counter, his hands and mind are too busy with a fiddly twist of wire around the cork of a rum bottle.

Richard claims it stops the built up pressure from pushing the cork out but it really always seemed like just another mindless chore dealt to him since he was old enough to do it. 

"Oliver, where's Richard?" Alasdair's voice doesn't break his concentration, Oliver only looks up when his task has been completed to his satisfaction.  
  
"Upstairs, he's bottling the—"  
  
The man beside Alasdair is unlike anything Oliver's ever seen before, his hair is long and neat – not tangled or shitty or grimy – his clothing very fine, without a single tear, fancy coloured and ruffled.-  
  
More to the point, Oliver doesn't recognise him, which is unheard of as far as Oliver is concerned. He takes a special pride in knowing the faces of everyone he crosses paths with.   
  
"Ale." Oliver sets his work aside, returning his attention reluctantly to Alasdair. "He said if I did it the world would end."  
  
Alasdair scoffs and shakes his head. "Well, I suppose I'm glad he's handling it then."  
  
"Is my dad with you?" Oliver asks, hopeful. "He said he was—"  
  
"Sorry, squirt, haven't seen him."  
  
The blond haired man had previously been studying his surroundings, but now his attention is drawn directly onto Oliver with eyebrows rising and mouth pressing tight in dissatisfaction, the look of which makes Alasdair jolt suddenly.  
  
"Oliver, do you know who this is?"  
  
Oliver looks him over again, marking him once again without recognition and shaking his head. "He looks like one of the clowns that sometimes perform in the square. Due to his fancy shoes."  
  
"He's the governor, His Royal Highness. You're supposed to bow and act politely," Alasdair urges with faux gentleness.  
  
If the urgings were supposed to spark some understanding in Oliver's mind then Alasdair has failed in that regard, because all Oliver is inspired to do is question, "why?" to wrestle out a more suitable reason to act so strangely to a man who is little more than a foppish stranger at the very best.  
  
"Because he's royalty. Didn't your da teach you that much?" Alasdair shakes his head, resting the crate he's carrying on the counter to free his hands. The whole thing rattles worringly, as though the nails might pop out. Alasdair frowns at the wooden slats, cracks his knuckles and winces.  
  
"My da told me respect was to be earned. So the only man what I respect is him on account of he'll cuff my ears if I misbehave."  
  
"…What about your Uncle Richard?"  
  
"He's my boss, of course I don't 'spect him."  
  
"Is this youngster an acquaintance of yours, Corporal?" the long-haired man asks.  
  
"He's the son of my partner, technically nephew to the bard, I think. He's a good worker but not very…" Alasdair hesitates, the next word said slowly and cautiously, " _Bright_." Alasdair says, as kindly as he seems able.   
  
"I'm plenty bright, you bastard."  
  
"Obviously, you're working down here unsupervised," the blond man says with sweetness that Oliver warms to yet finds that he resents. "Is that legal? I had imagined there to be rules about this."  
  
"Mister, I'm a whole fourteen years old, coming fifteen in a few months. Practically an adult. I'm a better worker than folk twenty times my age. Which would make them… thirty or something. I don't fuckin' know."  
  
"I see."  
  
"Look, we just came in for a bottle of wine. Do you have any in stock?"  
  
"What's wine? Uncle Richard never taught me anything bout wine," Despite putting a great deal of strain on his long term memory, only a few flimsy recollections of the word in question, he decides to guess, "is it a type of mead? It sounds like a sort of mead."  
  
"It's a sort of fermented grape type thing. Richard must have some; this is a bar, isn't it?"  
  
"He's a prince but he's not wearing a crown. So not everything has to be the way you imagine it." Oliver clucks his tongue. "Besides, I'm not really sure what a grape is. Is that a sort of grain or something? Because if it is then wine sounds like a whiskey. Which we have. Also this rum." Oliver sets the bottle on the table with a hard thump.  
  
"You've never seen a grape before?" The prince man looks appalled. "It's a fruit, that hangs in bunches, comes in green or red?"  
  
"You mean strawberries." Oliver corrects them now he has worked out this rddle, "I've had those, obiviously. I think Richard has something made from them."  
  
"Strawberry wine?" The prince's eyes widen. "How fascinating. Is that a Brittonic speciality?"  
  
"No, it's a _wine_." Oliver grins. His eyes falling onto the crate of items as his attention slips. "You must have done a lot of trading to get all that. I thought I was the best trader in town."  
  
"He didn't trade for it all, he paid for it." Alasdair sounds disgruntled. "He's a prince, Oli, Princes don't trade."  
  
"If you'd had me along you'd have gotten some of it in exchange for chores. Nobody knows old town like I do." Oliver nips his lip, noticing the collection of potatoes in the crate. "Hey, how about I trade you something for a few potatoes? I don't have any here and I'm cooking tonight."  
  
"Trade?" the prince blinks with bafflement, one hand on his hip and the other resting against his cheek, tapping his long clean fingers there with open-faced interest. "What exactly do you have to trade?"  
  
"Well…" Oliver folds his arms, "I'm real good at lots of stuff. I can clean, collect groceries, deliver things, carry heavy crap, I can trade, navigate the streets, tell the time, get in the way, talk an' listen, all that. It's good stuff."  
  
"It would seem you know a great deal about how things in Old Town work, considering you do so much."  
  
"Mister, I practically run this town." Oliver says with a dramatic swipe of his hand. "Hardly anything gets done without me. That's what everyone says. _Hey_ , does that mean I could be a governor?"  
  
"Oliver, please just, pretend to show the man respect before I have to throw you in prison."  
  
"If you do that my Da will literally kill you. Dead, in the ground."  
  
Alasdair sighs and scratches the back of his neck, looking apologetically to the prince. "He called my bluff."  
  
"How about we strike up a deal, Oliver?" The prince grins and leans on the bar. "I'll give you a couple of these potatoes and a clove of garlic in exchange for some future favour?"  
  
"A future favour? I guess that'd be okay." Oliver shrugs, "I can probably slot you in at some point."  
  
"You remind me of the bard. Very outspoken."  
  
"Uncle Llewellyn? Naw, he's a big ol' chicken. Except when he yapped at the judge."  
  
"Don't sass about your Uncle, Oliver." Richards voice calls as he steps back into the bar. "Llewellyns very—" He stops dead at the sight of the prince, reluctantly bowing. "Your Highness. I'm very sorry about my apprentice."  
  
Richard then places a hand on Oliver's head and pushes him down forcefully into a bow.  
  
"No, it's quite alright. He and I were doing a little business." The prince straightens up. "Although I do question the legality of leaving a child in charge of a bar."  
  
"I'm not a chil—" Richard's hand slaps over Oliver's mouth.  
  
"He's a very capable lad, except when it comes to untapping the casks."  
  
"I see. Well, with that sorted I had hoped to take a look at your wines. I imagine you have a few."  
  
Richard glances up and studies the prince's face before lowering his gaze again. "I have bottles in the cellar, you're welcome to take a look if you don't mind the cold."  
  
"You have a cellar?" Alasdair quirks his eyebrows at the very thought.  
  
"How else do you think I keep everything cool? Honestly."  
  
"I'd love to peruse your stock. It sounds as though you create your own as well as importing, Mr Walsh. May I ask where you learned your trade?"  
  
"From my parents, Your Highness, before they passed away." Richard sighs, compulsively fixing his clothing and realigning items on the counter. "If you'll follow me, I can lead you to my stockroom. Oliver, store Alasdairs crate where nobody can lift it then carry on with your work."  
  
Oliver nods, picking up the crate and slipping it under the bar with care.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
The prince had not only bought a dusty bottle of red wine with a mould-mottled label from Richard, but also samples of his blackcurrant, strawberry and nettle wines, as well.  
  
Their addition to the already overstuffed little crate Isabelle had provided them with has caused it to bulge at its sides, and it occasionally gives an alarming creak as the slim nails holding the slats in place slowly work their way free of their moorings. Alasdair shifts his grip on it again, wrapping his left arm around it more tightly and placing his right hand flat against its base in the vain hope that it might help contain the explosion when it inevitably comes.  
  
"I think the nettle wine might have finally pushed things over the edge, sir," he says. "Probably would have been best to stop at the strawberry, like I said."  
  
"You're no doubt right," the prince says, but his concerned frown is insultingly fleeting, and all too soon replaced by the expression of gleeful fascination he had worn when Richard had first presented the bottle to him. "But I just couldn't resist it, Corporal. I'd never heard of such a thing before. I wonder if it stings the tongue like the plant itself would?"  
  
That is an experiment that Alasdair would gladly leave the prince to perform alone. The pale green liquid looks and smells completely unappetising quite apart from the potential for painful blistering lurking within its cloudy depths.  
  
"Either way, if it stings today, then it still would tomorrow," he says. "You could have come back for it some other time. Can't say that there's much call for wine in the Antler, nettle or otherwise, so Richard likely wouldn't have sold it in the interim. You don't have to buy everything that catches your eye all at once, you know."  
  
"I suppose I did get slightly carried away," the prince admits apologetically. "There's only one more thing that I'd like to buy, and I'm afraid it really can't be put off until tomorrow.  
  
"Unless you don't mind going without meat, of course. I had intended it to be the centrepiece my dish, but I'm sure the ingredients we already have will suffice to make a flavoursome meal on their own, if needs be."  
  
Before Alasdair ate at the palace, he hadn't been aware that vegetables could be anything other than 'completely raw' or 'practically mush', and he'd detested them accordingly. Experiencing them when prepared by someone with a lighter touch than Dylan – and their Da before him – had been a revelation of sorts, though not one of such earth-shattering proportions that he can face the thought of an entirely plant-based lunch with equanimity.  
  
He peers down into the crate again, desperately revising his mental calculations of volume, weight and carrying capacity. There's a sliver of space left between the pot of cream and bunch of leeks, and though it's barely wide enough to fit a folded newspaper now, he's certain that if the potatoes were rearranged and he contrived a way to misplace the cabbage along the way, there should be room enough for another package.  
  
"Naw, you don't have to do that. We'll manage," he says. "Besides, the best butcher's around here is just across the street from the apothecary. Worst comes to worst, maybe you could even carry it those final few, gruelling feet yourself."  
  
The prince doesn't dignify that suggestion with an answer, but instead waves his hand in the direction of Ashfield Street, and exhorts Alasdair to, "Please, lead on."  
  
At first, the prince is silent, seemingly distracted, and Alasdair assumes him to be just as entranced by the mundane sights around him as he had been on their outward journey. As the delicate act of protectively balancing the crate demands so much of Alasdair's attention that he has little left for conversation, he is happy to keep his peace and let the man enjoy whatever dubious pleasures such things might bring him, at least until he starts muttering under his breath. That, too, Alasdair would have gladly ignored, had the argument the prince appeared to be having with himself not started to become somewhat heated.  
  
"Are you all right, sir?" he asks.  
  
He expects his inquiry to be met with scorn, judging by the sharpness of the prince's eyes when they're snapped towards him, and the sneer that twists at his lips. They both soften in an instant, however, leaving the prince looking thoroughly contrite, and perhaps a trifle ashamed.  
  
"My apologies," he says, "I forgot that I wasn't alone for a moment. I was just thinking aloud."  
  
"It sounded serious."  
  
"Not at all, I simply..." The prince shakes his head firmly, and then asks, "That boy, Oliver, you said he was your partner's son, didn't you? I presume you know him well, then."  
  
"Not really." Alasdair shrugs. "No better than any other regular at the Antler, I reckon. Angus and I don't exactly socialise much outside work, so I've not had the chance to speak to the lad all that often except at the pub."  
  
"Oh." The prince looks disappointed enough to hear that that he's practically pouting. "I was hoping you'd be able to confirm that my first impressions were true ones."  
  
"I still might," Alasdair says. "It depends on what they were."  
  
"He seemed like a very lively sort. Enterprising." The prince's eyes narrow slightly. "Brighter than you give him credit for."  
  
Alasdair doubtless deserves the chiding tone – despite his best efforts, he finds himself conflating a lack of schooling with a lack of intelligence far too often for his liking – but to be reminded of that failing by a fucking prince, of all people, is humiliating.  
  
"Sounds about right," he says, because it's as close to an apology to Oliver as he can manage in absentia. "I'd love to know what Angus does to keep him so enthusiastic about everything. Mikey can barely summon up enough motivation to get out of bed in the morning. If Dyl and I weren't there to apply a boot to his arse every now and then, he'd probably just sleep his entire life away."  
  
"I don't think that's uncommon." The prince gives an indulgent smile. "I was much the same when I was fifteen. I imagine the body is using so much of its energy to grow that there's very little to spare for anything else."  
  
Alasdair muses on this for a while, and ultimately decides he likes the sound of it as an explanation as it allows him to abdicate all responsibility for his little brother's slothfulness. "Mikey's grown about half a foot this past year alone," he says. "Seeing as though he's still about five foot nothing, I very much doubt Oliver has."  
  
"There you go," the prince says decisively. "I thought that was to blame in my case, though Maman insisted that the late hours I kept then played a far bigger part in it."  
  
"He does stay up reading till all hours, too," Alasdair agrees, as eager to latch on to this fresh justification as the last, but judging by the bark of laughter that the prince is a little too slow to stifle, his pinking cheeks, and swiftly averted eyes, it hadn't been books that were keeping him from his bed back then.  
  
Alasdair recalls suddenly that the prince had admitted to sneaking out from his ma's house to keep 'moonlit assignations', and he'd already known at the time that the man hadn't lived with her since he came of age. Nonetheless, he'd managed to miss making the most obvious connection between those two facts before.  
  
He's well aware that such things happen, but it's so alien to his experience and that of his nearest and dearest that the realisation comes as something of a shock, regardless.  
  
At fifteen, Dylan had blushed whenever Sofia Barbieri glanced in his direction, and couldn't quite summon up the courage to speak more than two words together to her. Arthur was already half in love Gabriella, though the two years of seniority she has on him had been an unbreachable gulf at that age, and she'd looked on him as more of an annoying little brother than anything else. If any of Caitlin's flirtations ever came to anything, she'd never told Alasdair about it.  
  
And at fifteen, Alasdair had still been labouring under the misapprehension that he was maybe just a little slow at maturing in certain areas compared to his sister and their friends. If he had any late nights himself at that age, then books were most definitely their only cause.  
  
"Mikey's not exactly what you'd call outgoing, so I'm fairly sure... that sort of thing isn't what's making him so lethargic," Alasdair says, blushing himself now. "Why on earth are we talking about this, anyway? I thought you were interested in Oliver, not my brother."  
  
The prince scowls. "You were the one who—" He cuts himself off abruptly by biting down hard on his bottom lip. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and then continues with a slightly strained: "Yes. I was thinking about the favour he now owes me, and how I might best utilise that."  
  
"You seemed pretty pissed off earlier; it's not going to be something unpleasant, is it?" Alasdair asks suspiciously. The prince had seemed irritated by Oliver's impertinence when they were introduced, and whilst Alasdair _thinks_ he isn't petty enough to want to seek some kind of revenge for that, he still doesn't know him well enough that he can confidently discount the possibility. "Angus would have your guts for garters if it was, prince or no."  
  
"Of course it won't be unpleasant," the prince says, his voice harsh and crackling with offended pride. "But if he isn't exaggerating his talents, then I suspect he might be very useful to me. And, in turn, being in a governor's service would open many doors for him."  
  
"In your service?" Alasdair chuckles. "Gods above, you're not thinking about offering him a job, are you?"  
  
The prince laughs, too, though he doesn't sound especially amused when he says, "I might,  dependent on how well he performs the task I choose to assign him."  
  
"You're going to end up employing half of Old Town at this rate."  
  
"Now that, _mon cher caporal_ , is entirely dependent on _you_. Are there any other interesting people you're planning on introducing me to today?"  
  
Perhaps because they're drawing into sight of the Beilschmidt's shop now, Alasdair finds his thoughts drifting to Gilbert. There's likely no-one who is better set to ease his current predicament than the prince, but as he also knows Gilbert would consider any such assistance charity – which he has disdained since he was a child – he says, "Not that I'm aware of." He nods towards the butcher's. "Well, here we are. And just in time, too. I think this fucking crate is right about ready to give up the ghost."  
  
The prince scurries forward to peer into the shop's window, and whatever he sees within makes his face brighten considerably. "They look to have some very nice cuts available," he says. "I trust you do like steak, Corporal?"  
  
Ma and Da always said that they were too rich for children's stomachs, but Alasdair is more inclined to think that they were simply too expensive to contemplate buying enough to feed seven. Contemplating them is all he's ever done as an adult, as he's never been in the position to be able to afford even one.  
  
"Never even tried it, sir," he says.  
  
He expects the prince to be horrified at that admission, but it only serves to make him look even more delighted. "Oh, Aly," he breathes out, clearly forgetting himself momentarily in his raptures. "I thought it couldn't be possible for me to look forward to cooking for you more than I already was, but it seems I was wrong."

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
The wall snags it's cold fingers at his tunic as he slides down it, the sound of the cloth resembles the dragging of a leper's foot. Llewellyn feels like he doesn;t truly exist. His breathing still heavy and his hands tremble when he holds them out infront of himself, but some degree of sense has returned, if only to make him feel simultaneously embarrassed about his outburst yet fearful of everything that had caused it.  
  
He isn't sure why he feels apprehensive, beyond the feeling of bitter association he draws from memories of his master, who had always had a sizable salary due to his being a favourite with the old governor and the respect and fear he could inspire amongst those who questioned his worth.  
  
Llewellyn doesn't want to be a man like that. One who punishes children for forgetting a few words of a song by locking them in tiny pitch black rooms and lashing their hands till they blistered and bled. He doesn't want to become emotionally distant and unfeeling to the point where it becomes unclear how much humanity will remain at the end.   
  
His master had told him that only a bard who has found their voice could become the true Bard of Deva. Become great.   
  
Llewellyn feels torn; to become like a man he respects yet fears - _feared_ – and become truly great, or to remain more as he is, human, and give up on ever reaching his full potential.  
  
He wraps his arms around his knees and resting his aching head against them, wondering if the other bards had ever faced this sort of quandary. If they did, their struggles were carefully trimmed from their records.   
  
A soft bat at his leg makes Llewellyn peek up, thinking it must be Dylan come to console him -or to scold-, only to find Hardd sitting at his feet, a single paw raised with a tail that waggles timidly with second hand anxiety.  
  
Llewellyn extends his hand out, caressing the dogs face, massaging his silky ears with his fingers. "I imagine you don't have to worry about this kind of thing, do you, boy?"  
  
Hardd tilts his head at the voice, licking at the offered hand as he shuffles closer, he paws at Llewellyn's leg again and licks his hairy little chops.  
  
Llewellyn chuckles at the soft noise of indignant displeasure that yips from the dogs mouth. "Hungry are you?" he asks, causing Hardd to bounce towards the door, an expectant look on his face.  
  
The distraction is short lived as Llewellyn's mind bounces back to his discomfort. It's withered to more of a robust feeling of isolation and murkiness of clarity. He wipes hard at his eyes, feeling a streak of wetness and nothing more.  
  
The small garden is neatly kept, he notices, rigged bits of sticks holding up the stems and creeping vines of various plants – Llewellyn only knows a few that were described in any of the old stories and even then only with a picture in hand. Each plant is beside one that helps keep the pests away, and a series of small dolls constructed from old fabric and straw sit, button eyed and smiling at the sky.  
  
Llewellyn rises and kneels to examine the only one he can pinpoint with accuracy, a clump of lavender that's thick, sending out its tendrils towards the sky from a centre that seems almost dead. It's an ugly looking thing, leaves like malformed spoons and smattered with the remaining cuckoo spit of the season which Llewellyn pokes with his finger till he finds one of the little green creature that lurk inside.  
  
He's always believed them to be frogs, for they match the descriptions. If a little small and strange in their living habit of living inside gobs of bird spit. Llewellyn recalls being young and spending sunny days hunting through the stalks of lavender for them when the time allowed and he was free.  
  
Careful hands let the little green thing go moving to rub his fingers against the lavender itself, his hands becoming fragrant as he plucks a few of the straggling flowers from the mass, carefully weaving them into a bundle, with a little grass to help finish it off. It takes his mind off his repetitive nagging worries. Grounds him and reminds him he exists.   
  
The finished product is a sloppy and unremarkable bunch of flowers and tied off grass that he's too relaxed to feel ashamed of. He takes his creation and wanders back indoors; discovering that it's quite warm compared to the outside.  
  
Everything seems empty, with nothing but a flicker of steam to add any movement. The governor appears to have left. Taking everyone with him, perhaps, although such thoughts are nullified quickly.  
  
Dylan greets him with an unsure smile and slow respectful steps. "You feeling better?"  
  
"A little." Llewellyn toys at his hair with his fingers and closes the distance. "I made a fool of myself, didn't I?'  
  
"No, not at all!" Dylan holds his hands as though to take a hold of Llewellyn's arms, but ends up clutching at nothing due to a sudden lack of momentum. "We can't help our feelings. I'm just glad that I can— Would you like some tea?"  
  
Llewellyn nods and nips his lip. "I should probably get you more tea. I feel like I've drunk it all." He laughs, but it brings back the idea of the fifty silvers afresh to his mind.  
  
"Well, we use it quickly, regardless, so I'm not worried." Dylan sets the tea down with baffling speed, he waits beside Llewellyn with a pained look of apprehension.  
  
"Dylan, what would you do in my place?"  
  
There's a look of incomprehension on Dylan's face, but one that turns thoughtful as he shifts closer. "Well, I'd be grateful I suppose."  
  
"Even if it meant somebody tore this place apart and made it different? I suppose it's not really the same." Llewellyn can't put a true voice to his feelings on the matter, pinches them between his teeth hoping to capture a taste of it.   
  
"I think sometimes change is good, but I'd probably panic and worry about it. But being given an opportunity like that is—" Dylan sighs and rattle his fingers on the table. "It's not really about me, is it? It's about what you want."  
  
"Taking money I don't deserve feels like stealing."  
  
Dylan rests his hand atop Llewellyn's, still warm from the mug, and squeezes. "Fifty silver coins to have you around is a bargain. You're worth infinitely more than that." He takes a sup of his tea. "That judge gets— I'm not sure actually..."  
  
"Seventy, that's the minimum for judicial heads. Which is exactly half of that of the high ministers, despite the fact they do half as much work."  
  
Dylan scoffs and laughs. "That's always the way, the less work you do the higher paid you— Not that you— _Shit_."  
  
"That's why I'm so hesitant, I'm not a judge or a minister of law. I tell stories nobody cares about and pluck at a harp everybody hates."  
  
"I don't hate it."  
  
"You're different." Llewellyn realises how whiny he sounds in that instant. "I mean, what good is a bard now?"  
  
"Bard Robert Hangtree saved a king by exposing a group of ambassadors who were assassins in disguise. Bard Fiona Wyvernshook tended to lepers and the sick as a healer. Elder Bard Elsyff inspired the troops of Britannia and Caledonia to fight fiercely on battlefields, armed only with his harp and voice."  
  
"He was shot and killed by an arrow fired by a Cymrian with poor eyesight." Llewellyn reminds him.   
  
"King Rufus Severin Leigh was a bard, and believed them to be no different. The Bard Winifred died, sacrificing herself for her people and became a martyr against the Empire's crushing hand, and Sian encouraged her king to make all laws fair and equal. What I mean is, they all found a way to use their talents for more than anybody ever imagined they could. Don't you think that's important?"  
  
"I'm not like them. They're the grand masters."  
  
"Grand masters I only know about because you told me. Great people that everybody except you have forgotten! Winifred started out standing up for Britannia in small ways, just like you did."  
  
"They burned her alive and fed the ashes to pigs."  
  
Dylan's counter argument is halted, but doesn't stop. "They don't really _do_ that anymore. What I mean is, sometimes people don't know how great they are, I just don't want you to give up because you don't like what you are now. Especially when you've found a way to give us a voice, one the governor is listening to."  
  
"I don't think it's me he's—"  
  
"Just think about it, I can't tell you what to do, but I think you deserve to be happy, everybody does, and nobody can be happy living in a draughty old hall with rotten doors and barely any food." Dylan runs his hand through his hair in irritation. "Even this little shop is a palace compared to it."  
  
Llewellyn lowers his gaze and nods, unconvinced but no longer willing to argue. "I suppose if I failed I could give up being a bard and find some other kind of work."  
  
"I hear you're pretty good with serving customers." Dylan chuckles.  
  
"I watched you do it a few times. It was just a little mimicry." Llewellyn laughs softly into his hand to mute the noise. "Here, I made this while I was outside." He hands out the little group of flowers he'd prepared. "I'm sorry if I ruined them for your work, they're just so fragrant and colourful."  
  
Dylan clutches them loosely in his hand, drawing his thumb up the stems until it brushes the woven grass, which immediately falls to pieces, flowers spilling over his lap.  
  
"I'm also not very good at making things." Llewellyn lifts a few of the plants, setting them on the table where they look more dead than anything else.  
  
Dylan watches Llewellyn's hand as it plucks up the fallen lavender from his lap, lifting a small piece and pushing it behind Llewellyn's ear, where it sits against his hair. "The best things in life are fleeting, so I hear."  
  
Scooting closer lets Llewellyn rest his head against Dylan's shoulder, imagining that fifty silvers or an empty pocket couldn't alter the little spark of bliss that puts his chest to a light and happy simmer. Especially when Dylan sneaks his arm around Llewellyn's middle, his nose resting beside Llewellyn's own.  
  
Dylan shifts, tightening his grip as he swallows and bites at his lower lip in bashful nervousness. "I was hoping—I mean, in regards to what you said to me last night, when you said that—It's just that I was going to—I wondered if it'd be okay if I—" Dylan visibly deflates, pulling away when Alasdair's telltale footsteps ring out distantly.  
  
With a clutch of Dylan's hand, Llewellyn nods.  
  
Dylan rises; stopping himself from dashing towards the kettle to place two fingers to his mouth, which he then dots lightly against Llewellyn's lips.  
  
"My ma always said that first kisses were for festivals…" Dylan mumbles, bright red in face and posture tight. "Which makes much less sense now, in a way."  
  
Then he slinks away, shameful and growing pale in colour.  
  
Llewellyn runs his fingers across his mouth, still feeling the left over warmth of Dylan's fingertips. He can feel the slither of hot blood gush into his cheeks. "You wanted to kiss me too?" Llewellyn's voice seems too quiet to hear. The tea is quickly sipped and his lower lip bitten as though to savour a flavour that isn't there. He raises his voice but keeps his back turned. "You can kiss me if you want to."

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
Sitting at the table with Dylan feels like a safe and lovely sanctuary even while nothing is being said. It's a curious thing, that a haven should exist where one is not supposed to belong, yet areas designated to serve as temples and retreats from the world become simply isolated. Llewellyn wonders if perhaps it's not the escape that makes the world safer, but the simplification and perfection of it. The whole world had seemed perfect when he'd watched the sails of the boats and soaked in the shanties, just as it does now as he listens to Dylan and gets a little lost in his eyes.  
  
It had been less than five minutes of bliss, but a splendid five all the same, interrupted by the feet of the prince, followed by Alasdair who looks far less pleased by what he describes to Dylan as an ‘ordeal'.  
  
"You know, I was suitably charmed by Old Town. I had expected it to be—" The governor bites his tongue and clears his throat. "And just look at all this produce, Isn't it splendid?"  
  
"I thought you were just going out to get cake?" Dylan frowns at the crate and throws an accusatory glower at his elder brother.  
  
"Don't blame me, His Highness," Alasdair says the term with a snooty upwards inflection that is elegantly ignored, "insisted on it."  
  
"I plan to create a meal. I so rarely have the pleasure of doing so. A chance for our bard to sample a taste of his future." The Prince sighs happily. "Good food, good company and a fine career for the benefit of our beautiful city."  
  
Llewellyn nods impulsively, attempting to shrink away from the attention as he does so. "I think—"  
  
"You really don't have to make us anything, Your Highness. What kind of host would I be if—"  
  
"Now, Mr Kirkland, I insist. Cooking is a joy, and I find it difficult to work in my own kitchens. If you'd kindly allow me to take over for a while, I'd be very grateful."  
  
Dylan fumbles and mutters his objections, but ends up nodding and agreeing even as it clearly causes him pain.  
  
Luckily, Alasdair eases his spirits by clapping his brother on the shoulder and giving him a good-natured shake. "If you hadn't agreed he'd have just ordered you to stand down. Trust me, he's keen on this whole thing."  
  
"But..." Dylan sighs, "I suppose if it's for Llewellyn then I can't argue. Please, Your Highness, make yourself at home."  
  
"Splendid!" The prince looks around, eyes wide like a child with a wide range of treats to select from. "May I ask where your accoutrements are?"  
  
"We have a soup pot," Dylan points to it where it sits, still full of stew. "I can get you a frying pan and a skillet, if they're still in one piece. I'm certain we had a pan for toffee; Michael makes toffee apples with it you see. It's likely a little sticky but perfectly serviceable."  
  
The prince's whole faces spasms, smile forcibly nailed to his face to such a degree that it seems almost to break the perfect sheen of his ceramic exterior. "Wonderful," he says through clenched teeth. "I tell you what, how about you two go together to see my tailor, a walk will work up your appetites."  
  
"Tailor?" Dylan blinks.  
  
"I'll take a while to prepare, and it's safer to travel together isn't it?"  
  
"Oh, yes, I suppose." Dylan nods. "Only if you want to, Llew."  
  
Llewellyn nods, grasping tight to the chance at escape he's been given. "Yes, but I'd really prefer to head home, as I don't think—"  
  
"If you run away I'll simply get the town guard to drag you back." The governor playfully tut-tuts with a wag of his thin finger. "Honestly, I had imagined a performer to be interested in the spotlight."  
  
"I'm not really a performer, just a historian. Who sings. I have no interest in..." Trying to argue is clearly a waste of effort, so Llewellyn surrenders, loops his arm around Dylan's, and holds tight to find reassurance. "I can go myself if you'd prefer to stay, Dylan, I don't want to—"  
  
"A walk sounds lovely. We've been cooped up in here for a long time."  
  
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Alasdair asks, frowning intensely as he averts his gaze.  
  
"Of course it is, you can help His Highness find what he needs, surely."  
  
"Take all the time you need." The prince shoos them away with a flick of his wrist. "Mlle Alaina will likely need hardly any time at all to get you measured up. Isn't that right, Corporal?"  
  
"Yes, I remember her. Very efficient." Alasdair shudders. "I suppose I may as well try and get Michael up at some point. Where the bloody hell is he?"  
  
"Reading, I believe." Dylan rests his hand atop Llewellyn's fingers, squeezing very softly. "You know how he likes his privacy."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Do you really think I'm a performer, Dyl?" Llewellyn eventually asks as they walk, arms apart now, though their elbows brush here and there. "I think of the talented musicians and dancers and I can't imagine being half as good."  
  
"Well, I suppose it depends. I think you're a fine performer. You play at the Antler, don't you? But if you don't want to be then you don't have to."  
  
"I feel more like a sack of potatoes. I'm not even coordinated enough to sew a button onto a garment, let alone move my feet."  
  
"I don't know that they're entirely related skills, but you should do what you love doing. Whatever you decide to do will always be the right choice as long as you don't force yourself." Dylan shrugs. "Just because His Highness says one thing doesn't mean it's always true. You perform music, but you don't have to do it in a way that makes you uncomfortable."  
  
"Everything makes me uncomfortable. I really wish I could try out life doing something normal."  
  
"Normality is over rated, you have to compete with other normal people, pay normal taxes and try and get by on normal income." There's a small lull in conversation, Dylan's face crinkled in a deep thought that Llewellyn decides not to interrupt. "Honestly, I'm not sure anything is really normal. Everybody just wishes they could be like everybody else. But you know that I think you're utterly perfect as you are."  
  
"Perhaps, but I don't feel like I'm—" Llewellyn finds himself tired of the subject, as it whirls endlessly in circles. "I just think sometimes I'd be happier not being the town bard, but I can't imagine doing anything else, so I'm stuck."  
  
"Most people do what their parents did, so I don't think you're alone in that feeling. I know I can't imagine being anything else. I imagine we just have to change the things we can and try and find happiness for ourselves."  
  
Llewellyn chews the inside of his mouth, nodding shamefacedly. "I suppose I never thought of it like that. I always imagine my situation is unique, but everybody has doubts."  
  
Dylan grins and scoots closer, patting Llewellyn's shoulder. "It's okay to be scared, but it's how we adapt that makes us better. You'll adapt to the things the governor gives you and find ways to help people that you couldn't before. You can give to the orphans or feed the poor. You'll do wonderfully."  
  
Llewellyn averts his eyes and feels himself blush. "I hope so. But even so, I always wanted to—" He bites hard on his tongue.  
  
"Always wanted what?"  
  
"Well." Llewellyn pauses. "You know already, that I grew up as an orphan."  
  
Dylan frowns at the very thought.  
  
"When I was little, I always imagined I'd get adopted with my brother and I'd have a family. But a bard is always outside society, so... Do you think somebody like me could ever have a family?"  
  
"You mean, marriage? Because I think you can get married if you want to! So long as it's somebody who loves you and who you love. I imagine somebody out there wants nothing more than---that."  
  
"Somebody out there?"  
  
"Or, somebody here. Just a somebody. Maybe you know them already."  
  
Llewellyn laughs and dips his head. "Well, if a certain somebody asked me, I'd say yes."  
  
"Lucky them." Dylan pouts, kicking the ground.  
  
"Would you ever want to get married?"  
  
"Absolutely, I always wanted a family, like my ma and da. My own little life, maybe with children and—" He coughs. "I mean, if they wanted children. And we'd share a house and talk everyday, and we'd shop and clean and... I make it sound very tedious."  
  
"Whoever you ask will be very lucky."  
  
"I doubt anybody would want to marry me. I barely make enough money to support myself and my little brother, having a spouse is a big responsibility."  
  
"But a spouse could help support you and your family?" Llewellyn feels the cogs turning, as though some anxiety over the increased pay turns to a sudden release of pressure.  
  
"Well, I'd hate to rely completely on another person, but I imagine a marriage is about accepting the help when it's needed and doing right by each other."  
  
"Well, If I married you, maybe I could help keep your shop going." Llewellyn falls into step beside Dylan, keeping brisk pace with his short steps. "You know I adore that shop and you and Michael."  
  
"You…marry me?" He stares, eyes wide.  
  
"Does that sound strange? I already said that I lov--"  
  
"Right. I just always thought you'd be able to do so much better."  
  
Llewellyn wraps his arms around Dylan's and holds tight, hoping to offer the same reassurance that he so often takes, "If somebody really likes you then they're perfect so long as you like them back. That's what all the stories say, isn't it?"  
  
With a nod and a flush Dylan clears his throat, "I think this is the place," he croaks, motioning to the boutique with a shaking hand. "It looks so fancy. I imagine the shops here are expensive."  
  
"Do you suppose people really wear such strange things?" Llewellyn asks, mystified by a hat that's loaded with feathers, flowers and ribbons. "It looks heavy."  
  
"Perhaps it's for special occasions." Dylan remains silent as Llewellyn looks over the dresses on show in the window, the matching purses and bonnets, the drapery and the single man's suit with overly long tails.  
  
"This must be how the better half dresses. I've only seen clothing so wonderful in books that happened to have pictures."  
  
"The people of Gallia must look like a bunch of birds, all strutting about. Meanwhile we're like sparrows, plain and dowdy in our hedgerows." Llewellyn chuckles.  
  
"You know, In regard to what you said before?" Dylan bites on his thumb, staying quiet longer than he usually would, "I'm not really sure how to say it, but I'm really fond of you. So I don't want you to think that I'm not. There's nobody I'd rather be _with_. Does that make sense?"  
  
Llewellyn nods. "That makes me happy."  
  
Dylan smiles faintly, touching his nose against Llewellyn's and resting it there. "I just don't want you to think it's because of the money. I liked you a lot before then."  
  
He presses a kiss to Llewellyn's brow.


	5. My Finest Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon arrival at the Tailors, Dylan and Llewellyn's day begins to take a turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I apologise for not having this up. I feel like I'm better than I was. Hope you enjoy and are well, my lovelies. Now I'm off to sleep. -Nekoian.

The inside of the shop is as elegant as the window display had hinted; the floors are sparkling pale wood, decorated by a rug so soft that Llewellyn's feet sink into it. Mannequins of varying shapes line the shop floor, each in a beautifully crafted dress or suit, and there is a single wine coloured sofa with golden trim to match the lustre highlights on its clawed feet. A mirror hangs from floor to ceiling reflecting light from the large window.   
  
A work table, piled high with books, fabrics and various unknown tools sits near the back and a strange machine with a wheel and threads that Llewellyn has never seen or heard described before inhabits a corner beside a folded screen. Rows of shirts and neatly folded linens are placed on small shelves along the side wall and the door gives a very faint tinkle when Dylan closes it behind him.  
  
Llewellyn and Dylan both look around themselves wide-eyed eyed in wonder at this strange and alien world they've stepped into.  
  
"I never imagined a shop could look so beautiful. Even the mannequins are made from such pretty fabrics." Dylan almost touches one of them, his hand snapping away at the last moment as though the thought of disturbing a single pin pains him deeply.  
  
"I suppose a governor does go to the very best tailor in town." Llewellyn leafs through some etchings left scattered on the work table, various men and women decked in kilted outfits and tartans. A strange choice he thinks for a Gallian tailor. He feels suddenly invasive, "perhaps she's gone out?"  
  
"Without locking the door?" Dylan steps forward, resting his hand on Llewellyn's shoulder, "perhaps she's busy or--"  
  
There's a soft padding sound that worms it's way into Llewellyn's ears very clearly, a low snuffly breath and heavy feet that gets quickly louder. A massive dog slopes into the room from a back door shielded by a cream curtain, great folds of skin ripple golden wheat with every fluid flex of the animals sizable muscle. The hulking face is an ugly spill of flesh containing amber coloured eyes that stare at both of them with suspicion.   
  
"Is that a dog?" Dylan entranced and terrified tightens his hold of Llewellyn's shoulder, easing him backwards to a hopefully safer distance. "There's a good dog, beast, thing."  
  
The dog beast licks its drooping jowls, it takes another step and makes a soft growling noise. it doesn't trust Dylan or Llewellyn it seems.   
  
"May I help you?" A lady's voice rolls with Gallian waves, its accent so full even compared to the governor's that it takes Llewellyn a little time to decipher it. Regardless of her odd inflexions, the dog relaxes at her side and begins to wag it's tail, looking up at her adoringly.  
  
"I'm here from—" Llewellyn lowers his gaze, unaccustomed to talking to strangers beyond his work at the courts.   
  
"The governor," Dylan carries on in Llewellyn's stead, visibly relieved. His hand remains on Llewellyn's person, "His highness told us to come talk to you."  
  
The lady, Mademoiselle Labelle, Llewellyn presumes, caresses the folds of flesh on her monster dog's head, her eyes shifting lazily from Llewellyn to Dylan then back again, "You've caught me at a terrible time, I was talking to the local guardsman. Could Francis not wait until later?" She tuts at the Princes percieved carelessness for not reading her mind.  
  
"Guardsman? Are you in some sort of trouble?" Dylan exchanges a look with Llewellyn and they mutually agree that: "We could come back later if need be."   
  
Angus steps out of the back room in his full armour, eyes pinned to a small notepad that he's writing on with a pencil. His frame dwarfs the lady he stands beside as well as the door itself.

Llewellyn and Angus lock eyes when Angus notices the company, yet both remain silent, if only from a quiet respect for Angus' work. Whatever he's doing must be of some importance.   
  
"You're—" Dylan's voice is like the cap of a kettle popping away to squeal over boiled water. "Mr Walsh, what are you doing here?" The hand on Llewellyn's shoulder gets pulled away as though Angus' impassive expression has scalded it.   
  
"Got reports of stolen Gallian silk. Came to investigate. Done now." Angus says, then turns to the tailor, offering her a deep nod. "I'll do what I can, have a pleasant day, Ma'am." With that Angus ruffles the ears of the dog, promises to return what goods he can and finally, exits as sternly as he arrived.

Miss Labelle watches him go with eyes full of fascination. Perhaps out of awe for Angus' towering physique or entranced by his armour. A determined self-confident smile.

"We're so sorry, if we'd known we'd have come another time." Dylan says, disregarding the fact that the Prince himself had told them to attend.   
  
"Quite alright, please don't be shy, Gentlemen." She's clearly not as interested in them as she was Angus' company, yet resigns herself for now. "I have a lot of work to catch up with, so it's about time I got back to it." She smiles placidly with the painted features of a doll, hair that's tied up with purple ribbons and held in place with a fine golden net, a simple yet beautiful gown cascades to her feet, perfectly designed to show off her pale porceline shoulders and overly ample breasts. "I am sorry about mon Petit, did he frighten you?"  
  
Dylan shakes his head and gives Llewellyn a gentle nudge that spurs him into speaking. "No, we're fine. I came from the governor, I'm Llewellyn Walsh. The bard? I was told you were expecting me."  
  
"Oh yes, the bardic garment! I almost thought you had snubbed me." Miss Labelle places a hand to her bosom as though deeply wounded, "No matter, it's given me time to prepare," she steps towards Llewellyn to pace around him, hmming-and-haing and clucking her tongue about how his current attire won't do. "And the final piece will be for yourself I trust?"  
  
"Well, yes. I suppose." Llewellyn tracks her movements, the way she doesn't good back. He can see confidence in every inch of her. Not hesitating to tell him to stand taller or hold out his hands. He does as instructed, he imagines even a more powerful person would do as she commands.   
  
"Goodness me," She begins making notes in a small journal, scratching out some notes vigiouresly then writing more in their place, "you're far more dainty than I imagined. I thought the native men of Britannia to all— Well, I suppose I can make do." She trots away and lifts a book that's packed full to bursting with papers and cloth. "I've been enthralled by the native couture for a while now, and I have fabulous designs in mind. Something bold and exciting. What do you think?"  
  
She presses the book into Llewellyn's hands, his eyes drawn to the brightly coloured images and fabric samples, blazing reds and gaudy yellows that make Llewellyn want to snap it shut, accept it and then never wear what he's given. "I'm not sure. "  
  
"Do you think the long sleeves are too much?"  
  
Miss Labelle; Alaina, Llewellyn reminds himself, lifts her skirt then wafts her softly perfumed way towards one of her many drawers, pulling out a swathe of golden fabric that glitters so much that it makes Dylan squint. "You see I had heard that the bards of old adored their bright colours. I hoped to harken back to those days, add a touch of drama." She sweeps her hand under the fabric, letting it fall in a heavy arc so the light catches it, dazzling Llewellyn into wincing.  
  
"I'm not really interested in drama." Llewellyn closes the book and passes it to Dylan, who immediately flicks it open and begins to coo over the illustration work. "I was just hoping for something simple. Perhaps more subdued in colour. I really don't want to stand out."  
  
Alaina pouts in obvious dissatisfaction. "A member of the prince's court who _doesn't_ want to stand out? How utterly fascinating. But you simply must have something worthy of my talents." She says, her thick accent full of drama, "I'll be a laughing stock if I merely make another one of these. His Royal highness would never seek out my services again, I'd be ruined." She plucks up the sleeve of Llewellyn's robe in such a way that she makes contact with it as little as possible.  
  
"Perhaps simple isn't the correct term." Dylan offers when he closes the book, "Perhaps if we say, elegant?, Llewellyn is very elegant and lithesome." Dylan suggests, his eyes straying over to the tailor with appreciation until his eyes fall onto her dog, which he offers a reluctant pat on the head as though to apologise for his previous overreaction.    
  
"Yes, I see, I see. Elegance, beauty, subtlety." She motions for Llewellyn to remove his robe which Dylan graciously takes, then she pulls out a measuring tape, snapping it back and forth like an army drill sergeant until she's satisfied. "You are a very slender young man, something to bring out the softness of your features perhaps. With some embroidery to make up for the lack of form and movement. Oui! Something light and breezy that flows and billows; which always make a good impression. Helps to draw attention to the important things. Which for you would be the hands and the face." She taps his harp with her pencil.   
  
She shoos them towards her drawer of fabrics, throws it open with the flames of inspiration licking at her heels. She digs out a vivid sky blue colour, she's disappointed at the lack of enthusiasm it receives, yet within seconds she tosses it aside for a dark purple, discards it with heated Gallian muttering and one by one takes out each roll then ignores it when her passion for it isn't reciprocated or she declares it "all wrong, all wrong!"   
  
With a sigh she opens another drawer, beginning to pluck her way through each roll of fabric. She pauses on one, then another before forcefully wrenching out a wad of apparently forgotten cloth from the very back. Its roller is a little compressed by the other fabrics' weight, its colour is a light grey brown, with a slight silvery sheen.  
  
Alaina holds it up to the light and almost makes to toss it aside, but for Dylans breathy, "That would bring out the brown of your eyes, Llewellyn, it's very pretty. I think so at least."  
  
Faced with more hunting, and bashful over Dylan's compliment, Llewellyn reexamines the cloth, unsure but willing to take Dylan's advice. The second-hand compliment - _beautiful-_ takes root in his mind. The cloth becomes precious then. "It is lovely." He looks at Dylan as he says it.   
  
"You want this colour? But taupe is so—" Alaina pulls a face, but unfurls the cloth on her cutting table to study the way it moves, it's like a dancer's ribbon. "I suppose with a little work and some gold and silver. Oui, I can work with this. With a matching long tunic and trousers. Oh, it will be my finest work to date!"  
  
"But—"  
  
"You'll look very professional. Perhaps with a simple bit of… Oui. I amaze myself!" Alaina claps her hands in delight. "When Francis see's this he'll say ' _c'est vraiment magnifique she has done it again!_ ' He'll positively swoon over you, that's how beautiful I'll make it _."_  
  
Llewellyn is certain if there's one thing the Prince will never do, it's swoon over somebody like Llewellyn. Perhaps he'll take pleasure in the craftsmanship. The relationship he has with the prince is, Llewellyn realises he has no idea. He'd spent so much time studying the other man that the real meat of what they really are to each other isn't clear beyond handmade Prince and dowdy little nobody. Llewellyn imagines it would be pleasant to have somebody like the Prince swooning over him; he looks to Dylan and feels those petty desires rush away when Dylan glances up from Alaina's explanation of her ideas to smile at Llewellyn with his eyes. 

Once the tailors enthusiasm has cooled she lifts her skirts and offers them a curtsey, "forgive me gentlemen, I did not introduce myself properly. I am Alaina Francille Labelle of the Bordeaux region of Gallia, Royal tailor, at your service." 

"It's nice to meet you, I'm Llewellyn Walsh, town bard . I'm grateful you took the time to see me." he gazes around the shop, finally taking in the number of mannequins with unfinished works hung on them. "You must be a very busy woman." 

Alaina puffs herself up with pride the same way the Prince has done once or twice, looking almost his double for a split second. Llewellyn supposes it must be how Gallians are. 

"And I'm Dylan Kirkland." He bows as though to the Prince himself, "Your work is stunning. I can see why his Highness thinks highly of you." 

Alaina's eyes widen in wonder, responding with:"Oh, Dylan Kirkland, where have I heard that name before," instead of revelling in the compliment so freely given. Alaina takes a pair of large silver scissors to a swatch of red fabric, which she rolls into a convincing looking rose, pinning it into place with a thoughtful look taking over her features. "Oui, oui you must be Arthur's brother. Gabriella has mentioned you. Now I recall. You don't look the way she describes you."  
  
"You know Gabriella?"  
  
"She's never mentioned me? I'm offended!" More faux drama, then an amused glimmer of a smile. "She came to me looking for some fresh healer's attire. We got to talking and I couldn't help taking a shine to her. Of course as soon as I heard she had an intended suitor I offered to make her a dress. Free of charge. It will be my finest work."  
  
"You're really doing that for her? That's very kind." Dylan's eyes widen in wonder at this display of kindness between women. He's clearly touched.   
  
"I can hardly charge a close friend. So you must tell that brother of yours to propose. He'll look splendid in the suit I plan to make for him. She tells me he's very handsome. He'll need a fine suit wear."  
  
"Arthur would probably object to that," Dylan says under his breath, but with a laugh. "So does that mean you know my older brother as well, Corporal Alasdair Kirkland. He's working for the governor. He said he had met you."  
  
The tailor feigns a lack of familiarity for a moment before alighting gleefully, adding a touch of flare when she says, "oh oui, the guard. I made him a stunning kilt, as is the style of the Northern men. I hear he didn't take to it. But I imagine he looked stunning when he wore it. He has the legs for a kilt, that's what I said to myself and to think that you're here too, Mr Kirkland. It must be fate."  
  
"It does seem strange considering Llewellyn's brother was just in here," Dylan chews on the words carefully. "It's as if we just can't get away from each other's kin."  
  
"Your brother, that man?" The tailor visibly pinks at his mention. "I had been told the name Walsh was a common one, I didn't realise."  
  
"We only grew up together. There's no blood relation. He came from north of here, so perhaps he'd be happier to wear your tartans than Alasdair."  
  
"Well, he's just investigating some lost stock for me. But if I ever need a model I'll have to bear it in mind," she lies, "I suppose I'll have to create something for his spouse too. Wouldn't that be a fine image." 

"Angus isn't married." Llewellyn can't imagine he ever will be, "I don't think he's had much interest in that sort of thing for a long time." Somehow, Llewellyn can't see Angus with anybody now he's older. He's simply been the way he is too long. 

"I see; a fiance." Alaina sighs dreamily. "The embers of love begin to cool during an engagement I hear. That's what weddings are for: to fan the flames and bring it to life." 

"Mr Walsh isn't in any relationships, I don't think." Dylan rests his hands on his hips and seems to flick back through his thoughts. "Unless being stuck on patrol with my brother most nights counted. Could be keeping it a secret? I wouldn't have thought that would be easy considering how much--" 

"So he's not involved with anyone," Alaina rolls another rose from her fabric, a candid smile taking bloom on her face. A secret smile that Llewellyn imagines nobody was meant to notice, "how terribly sad, he seems like an interesting man." 

Llewellyn and Dylan look at each other in bafflement. Angus is a great many things, but interesting has never really been used to describe him before. 

Sensing their hesitation Alaina stands up and sets her scissors in a drawer, "I tell you what, Mr Kirkland, since you're a friend to Miss Gabriella and you kindly came with Mr Walsh, how about I offer you a little something as a parting gift."  
  
"A gift, for me?"  
  
The tailor scampers away to rummage through her stock of shirts and trousers. She plucks up one of each and places them in a bundle into his arms. "These are some shirts and trousers, they should fit. If not do bring them back and I'll amend them." She grins. "I have a terribly good eye, so it shouldn't be a problem."  
  
"You really shouldn't, I'm—"  
  
"I have far too many as it is, since His Highness' guards never come to replace their attire. Just tell your brother I made them, so he knows what I can do. He'll propose in no time." She turns her attention to her dog, kneeling down to cuddle the beasts wrinkled face and ears, "Telling everyone where these fine articles came from won't hurt either, will it Petite?" in the fashion mothers often use to talk to their babies.   
  
"If you're sure," Dylan studies the clothing, then looks down at his own attire and frowns at it. "Thank you, Miss Labelle, I'll be sure to pass on your message to Arthur."  

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
Alasdair had begged the use of a roasting pan from his neighbour, Mr Pearson; bought two saucepans from Mrs Hunter, the ironmonger, on the prince's urging; and returned to the butcher's to borrow a set of knives from Ludwig. He'd unearthed Dylan's little used skillet and Michael's toffee pan, and scoured dried grease and chipped fire-hardened sugar from them respectively.  
  
He casts his eye over the accumulation of steel- and ironware that has now taken over a good portion of the kitchen table, and wonders how in the many hells the prince could possibly find use for even half of it during the preparation of a single meal. "I thought you said you were making something simple."  
  
"I am." The prince steps forward to stand at Alasdair's shoulder and follows his gaze. Judging by the disgruntled flare of his nostrils, he's still not satisfied by what he sees. "I suppose this will have to do."  
  
"You suppose?" Alasdair says incredulously. "It looks like you're about to start cooking for an army, Francis. Dyl manages to feed three people practically every night and I've never seen him use more than two pans at a time."  
  
The fleeting purse of the prince's lips suggests that he does not consider this economical use of cookware a virtue, but thankfully he forbears to pass any judgement against Dylan's character because of it. "You never cook yourself?" he asks instead.  
  
"Naw, not really my forte. Ma and Da tried to teach us all as much as they could, but Dyl is the only one who's ever had any talent for it. Da used to say I was 'aggressively bad', though. I wasn't even allowed to boil the kettle on my own until after he... Until I was fifteen or so, because he was worried I'd somehow find a way to burn the water."  
  
The prince attempts to muffle his laughter but he's a fraction too slow lifting his hand to his mouth, and it spills out through his splayed fingers, regardless. "Fortunately, you won't be needed at the stove," he says, "but I could use your help, all the same. We will have to wait for Mr Walsh and your brother return before I do most of the cooking, but I want to have all of the vegetables prepared before then. How are with a paring knife?"  
  
"Well, Dyl describes my technique as 'hacking', which probably tells you all you need to know." Alasdair shrugs. "I can usually be counted on not to do myself an injury, but that's about it."  
  
The prince bares his teeth briefly, but the movement is a little too stiff to be mistaken for a real smile. "You handle a sword with enough skill that I don't doubt that you could do the same with a knife, given the right instruction." He doffs his frock coat and drapes it over the back of the nearest chair. "Now, shall we begin?"  
  
The prince removes the golden links from his cuffs, deposits them into a trouser pocket, and then carefully folds up his sleeves so they rest just above the crooks of his elbows. The insides of his arms are fish-belly pale except for two dark pink lines scored down their centres: on the right, jagged and uneven like a fork of lightning; on the left, perfectly straight and a little puckered at the edges.  
  
Alasdair barely even glances at them, but the prince marks his notice all the same. He looks down at them too, his eyes widening as though he's just as surprised by their existence as Alasdair himself.  
  
"My war wounds," he says, smiling wryly.  
  
"From Germania?"  
  
"I admit, 'war' is perhaps not the most accurate description for them." The prince chuckles. " I got this" – he points to his right arm – "falling out of a tree when I was ten, and this" – he points to his left – "is proof that cooking can be just as dangerous a pastime as swordplay, in its way, and you should be just as careful not to let your attention wander whilst you're engaged in it."  
  
"So, that's another story about you that wasn't exaggerated, then? You did manage to get through your entire tour of duty completely unscathed."  
  
"Not quite," the prince says. He quickly untucks his shirt, and pushes the material up until a thin sliver of his stomach is revealed, lightly ridged with muscle and unmarred by anything save for a sparse smattering of hair, as far as Alasdair can tell.  
  
"Am I supposed to be able to see something, or did you just fancy exposing yourself?" he asks warily.  
  
The prince gives an exasperated huff. "Right there," he says, gesturing towards a tiny white pockmark just below his navel that's practically invisible until Alasdair crouches down and tilts his head at just the right angle.  
  
"I've given myself worse cuts shaving," he says, squinting at it. "And you got that on the battlefield?"  
  
"I never said that. I wore full plate armour, if you recall. I was actually sparring with—"  
  
Michael must have drifted down the stairs like a ghost, as his quiet, shocked, "What the fuck?" is the first thing that alerts Alasdair to his presence in the kitchen.  
  
Distractedly, he notes that the prince's blush spreads all the way down to the waistband of his trousers. His own feels bright enough to set his cheeks aflame.  
  
He hurriedly gets to his feet and spins around to face his little brother. "Mikey, His Highness was..."  
  
Words fail him, but the prince helpfully steps into the breach with: "Showing off my scars."  
  
"Right." Michael sounds sceptical and, frankly, Alasdair can't really blame him. "I just came down to get a glass of water, but then I promise I'll get out of your hair again straight away."  
  
Alasdair tells him that, "You don't have to go," at the same time that the prince says, "I was hoping you'd stay, Master Kirkland."  
  
"Why?" Michael asks, his eyes narrowed in suspicion as they flicker back and forth between the two of them.  
  
"There's lots of work to be done," the prince says. "I would be very grateful for your assistance."  
  
Michael's nose wrinkles in disgust at the word 'work', but when the prince swings his arm out expansively, drawing his gaze to the enormous pile of food sitting on the counter, his expression lifts in an instant.  
  
"Is that all for us?" he asks, his voice hushed in wonder.  
  
"It will be your lunch, as long as I am able to get it ready in time," the prince says encouragingly. "So..."  
  
He picks up the smallest of Ludwig's knives and hands it out towards Michael, who grabs it with alacrity. Laziness may ride in the postilion seat of his mind of late, but his stomach always commands the coach box.  
  
"I thought you should start with the potatoes." The prince places the small brown paper bag containing them at the centre of the one clear spot that remains on the table top. "They take the longest to cook, and I need to parboil them in milk before I can even think about arranging the rest of the dish for the oven."  
  
"And what are you going to do whilst we're stuck with all the hard graft?" Alasdair asks as he sits himself down at the table and reaches for the second smallest knife.  
  
"Oh, I'm sure I'll find something to keep myself busy," the prince says, smiling thinly. "But first I want to see this so-called 'technique' of yours. I had not accounted for the addition of blood when I was deciding upon which herbs and spices I would use. You wouldn't want to upset the balance of flavours I had planned, surely?"  
  
"Right." Alasdair rolls his eyes despairingly. "Thanks for your concern, sir."  
  
He selects the largest potato, as he knows from experience that he'll likely end up slicing a good third of the flesh away along with the skin, sets the knife against its least lumpy side, and digs the blade in. It slips a little as he drags it down, and pops free of the tuber, skimming along the tip of his thumb.    
  
Sighing, he repositions his hold on the potato, but before he can apply the knife again, the prince calls out a distressed-sounding, "Stop!"  
  
He steps up behind Alasdair, and then without so much as a word of warning or breath of apology, leans over his shoulder and curls his hand around Alasdair's wrist. "Honestly, Aly," he says, "it's no wonder you have difficulties with this. You look like you're preparing to go into battle. You shouldn't hold a kitchen knife in the same way as a sword. Here" – he slides his hand down until it's covering Alasdair's, fingers nudging at his to adjust their grip – "that's better."  
  
It most certainly isn't. The full length of the prince's arm is moulded against Alasdair's own, squeezed far too close. He feels trapped, claustrophobic, and a panicked heat rises in his chest, scorching his throat dry.  
  
"And don't use so much pressure," the prince continues, blithely unaware of Alasdair's discomfort. "You need to skim the blade just beneath the skin, otherwise there won't be any flesh remaining to speak of. Yours or the potato's."  
  
"Okay," Alasdair begins, but his voice is so hoarse and thin that it breaks apart immediately after the word has left his lips. He swallows hard a couple of times in an attempt to wet his mouth, and then tries again. "Okay, Francis. I think I can take it from here by myself now."  
  
A strangled gasp draws Alasdair's attention to the opposite side of the table, where Michael has since seated himself. His brother dips his eyebrows meaningfully when their eyes meet, and then he mouths, "Francis?"  
  
Alasdair hadn't even noticed he'd used the name. He scrabbles for a reason to justify it, but, flustered as he is, all reason seems temporarily beyond easy reach. After a moment's consideration, however, he decides to give up the search entirely. It's tiring enough, carefully watching his every word on the street, and in front of the prince's family and servants, but he should be able to relax and call a person whatever comes most readily in his own home.  
  
He tilts his head back slightly and informs the prince, "You can be Francis here, too, as well as in your bedchamber."  
  
Michael's cheeks bulge outwards with trapped air, clearly trying very hard not to laugh, and the prince curls his hand more tightly over Alasdair's, the blunt ends of his nails pressing into Alasdair's skin.  
  
"For fuck's sake, you've got a dirty mind, Mikey," Alasdair says, glaring at his brother. 'In private' then. Is that better?"  
  
The prince gives a sudden loud and undignified snort, and Michael's face flushes such a deep shade of red that it looks as though his head's about ready to explode.  
  
It seems as though it would be fruitless – not to mention even more humiliating – to attempt to explain himself a third time, so Alasdair instead growls at them both to, "Shut up. Don't we all have work we should be doing?"  
  
"Of course," the prince says warmly, giving Alasdair's wrist a light squeeze before he steps back away from him again. "I need to familiarise myself with your stove before I start on anything else. I'm afraid it's quite unlike those I've used before."  
  
Michael watches his retreat avidly, and the exact moment he could reasonably be considered beyond the earshot of someone using their very quietest tone of voice, leans forward in his chair and asks in a whisper, "So it is true, then? You and the governor _are_ shagging."  
  
"We most certainly are not," Alasdair says. Whatever the prince's youthful experiences may have been, he is of the opinion that lads of fifteen shouldn't be thinking too deeply on such things, and whomsoever passed that little nugget of shite on to Michael should be thoroughly ashamed of themselves. "Where the fuck have you heard that from?"  
  
Michael lifts one shoulder. "Everyone's saying it."  
  
"Well, everyone's wrong. He's just my boss."  
  
"I haven't heard many people talk to their bosses like that."  
  
"I guess we get along all right, too," Alasdair concedes. "There's no law against being friendly with your boss, is there?"  
  
"You'd know best about that," Michael says with a swift grin. "So, you're saying you're friends then?"  
  
"Naw." Alasdair shakes his head firmly. "Men like me and him can't be friends. We move in completely different circles, and his is lofty enough that he's always going to be looking down on me, whatever he says."  
  
"You _act_ like you're friends."  
  
"Well, we're not."  
  
Michael smirks. "Or something more than friends...."  
  
Alasdair stretches one leg out beneath the table and gives his brother's ankle a sharp kick.  
  
Michael's loudly yelped, "Twat!" startles the prince so badly that he almost loses his balance and topples headfirst through the oven door he had been inspecting. He straightens up in a trice, and looks askance at Alasdair.  
  
"Sorry, Francis," Alasdair says. "He can't help it. He wasn't raised right."  
  
The prince opens his mouth as though to question further, but ultimately snaps it shut again without saying anything and redirects his attention back to the stove once more.  
  
Despite his exaggerated whimpering and clutching at his leg as though it's just been dealt a grievous wound, the smirk is still quick to return to Michael's lips. Alasdair scowls at him.  
  
"Just peel your fucking potato, Mikey," he says, "and don't say another word."

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
All the vegetables have been chopped as per His Highness' instructions, his cream and potato concoction is bubbling away in the oven, and as there's still no sign of Dylan and the bard, the prince had suggested that the nettle wine would be a pleasant way to pass the rest of the time until their return.  
  
He passes a brimming cup to both Michael and Alasdair, and then does his usual swirl and sniff routine with his own. His eyes start watering afterwards, so Alasdair decides to forgo that  particular step of wine appreciation and just take an experimental sip of it.  
  
It burns the roof of his mouth before he hastily swallows it down, and leaves a lingering aftertaste of tar. When it hits his stomach, it gives a gurgling lurch of horror, and feels to make a valiant attempt to escape its torment by way of his throat.  
  
"Compost and lamp oil," he wheezes to the prince.  
  
"I really do despair of your palate, Aly," the prince rasps back. "It's clearly turpentine."  
  
Michael looks at them both in puzzlement for a moment, and then drops his eyes gloomily to his own mug. "I hope Dylan and Llewellyn get back soon," he says.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
“So, I guess that’s all done then.” Dylan walks with a cheerful looking spring, matched by his bright face. “She was very generous. I wonder how we’ve never met her before if she knows Gabriella so well.”  
  
“Who knows?” Llewellyn twirls at his hair, studying how it forms a small ringlet at the tip between watching Dylans hefty frame and to the robe that he's so used to wearing, “I hope she doesn’t make my clothing too overpowering.”  
  
“She knows what she’s doing. She makes His Highness's clothing. No doubt she has your _measure_ ,” Dylan laughs at his own joke, pausing to take in a breath. “We got through that fairly quickly. So I imagine, if you wanted, we could go for a pleasant walk. Since there’s no rush. I doubt we're needed back at the shop regardless.”  
  
“A walk? To where?”  
  
“Well, nowhere in particular. It’s just nice to be outside. Unless you want to get back.”  
  
“We can take the long way home. If you think we’ll be safe.” Llewellyn realises how much he enjoys having Dylan all to himself. His adoring face and words are like a drug, highly addictive and intoxicating. His light touches a beautiful sort of agony that makes him want more.   
  
“The governor said it’d take a while didn’t he? We’d be doing him a favour, working up our appetites.” Dylan muses, “and who knows when we’ll have time to just relax, especially when the day is this beautiful.”  
  
Llewellyn notes the clarity of the sky, the dull light smearing purple and orange across it over the brilliant blue that will quickly darken and blink away . “Why don’t we head towards the hall. The view is really beautiful up there. It’s not so far a walk.”  
  
A nod of agreement flurries Dylan's hair, harsh light gleaming down his nose as he turns. His hand slipping without thought around Llewellyn's, a light clutch of fingers drawn away by nerves that soon give way to wanting, they hold hands as they walk in isolation relaxing peacefully, the same way that the day breathes out a last breath and waits patiently for the night to end, for its revival.  
  
The walk to the hall is a heady breeze of conversation, of jokes and discussions of music that Llewellyn has come to love in their inanity. He hopes it will be like this forever.   
  
“Do you know how to dance the steps to any of the songs at the festival? My Da never really fancied the folksy stuff.” Dylan asks when their conversation turns towards their plans that night, yet flinches like he’s said more than he intended.  
  
“I know a few, the steps are listed in a book in the hall. The traditional dance of lovers is the _rhwng ddwy_ or between two. It’s performed in a group so it’s less likely anybody gets noticed taking a misstep.” Llewellyn has seen it performed often, although usually the dancers are too far in their cups and tumble over like a badly attended house of cards.   
  
“That’s reassuring, I suppose. I had heard that these sorts of dances were very difficult. My feet are all thumbs. Just like my hands are all toes.”  
  
“I’ve never really tried to dance. So at least we’ll be as bad as each other.” Llewellyn squeezes Dylans hand reassuringly. “If anybody laughs at you, I’ll forget their face. That’s a huge insult.”  
  
“My hero.”  
  
“I’ll try and be tougher, if needs be.” Llewellyn pauses for breath. Their journey toward the hall is almost over, the crumbled wall lit to a haze against the tall grasses. “What’s more, we can avoid dancing if you prefer. There’s no need to force yourself into things that you’re unhappy doing.”  
  
“That’s sweet, but I—“ Dylan’s voice snarls, mouth snapping shut to catch the leg of the sentence that had almost fled. “I’m not sure how I'd feel about it. I'd want it to be perfect.”  
  
The peak of the hill falls away as they reach the garden – unkempt, as always – the walls around it softened like the crumbling crust of bread where plaster has fallen away bit by bit.  
  
“You can decide when the time comes. We’ll have fun either way. There’s always something.”  
  
Dylan nods, eyebrows bunched up, his posture tense. “I do want to. It’s part of the courtship ritual. To help couples see if they’re compatible. I really want to do everything as close to tradition as I can.”  
  
Resting his hand on Dylan's shoulder earns Llewellyn a small startle. Dylan's body twitches at the touch, nearly retreating backwards to a stop.  
  
“What’s the matter?” Llewellyn keeps his voice low, hoping not to demand, simply to reassure that anything said to him will be in confidence. “There’s no shame in missing a dance or two. It will be perfect so long as we enjoy ourselves.”  
  
“It’ll sound really ridiculous if I say anything.”  
  
Llewellyn allows Dylan to make up his own mind on the matter, waiting with coaxing neutrality. He's learned that hounding emotions will send them to earth like a scared rabbit down into it's warren.   
  
“My parents always said they had a traditional courtship, down to the dancing and the gifts. I always really wanted that myself.” Dylan slips away and sits on a bit of wall that’s tumbled down. “I _want_ that, but when I think about them I—“ Dylan bites in a sob so hard that he makes an ugly snorting noise.  
  
It’s not a noise Llewellyn has ever heard before, it stuns him into immobility at first. He can only move closer slowly and fumble his way to sit beside Dylan and hope that his presence is welcome. Particles of plaster give way and the dust blows away without a thought to Dylans sadness.   
  
“I really miss them sometimes. I think about all the things they’ve missed. Michael growing up, their anniversaries, our birthdays. I always hope the pain will go away but it still surfaces, and now I’m going to my first festival with somebody I think I love and they’re not here to help me.” Tears slip freely down Dylan’s cheeks, despite how he tries to scrub them away. “The worst part is not even knowing why our mother suddenly left. Not being able to do anything. God's I was so fucking useless!”  
  
“I’m sorry, Dylan.” Llewellyn rests his arms on his knees, studying the ground, a pile of old plaster and stone sits in a pile there, a memory of what once was yet can never be put back. “It must be difficult.”  
  
“It’s been years.” Dylan lifts a small stone and hurls it away, there's a faint clatter of it as it strikes ground in the distance and vanishes. “I should be over all this, but my mind tricks me into thinking about it and worrying that more people will leave.”  
  
“Richard told once that mourning isn’t like a wound, it doesn’t really scab over or heal. It’s like a piece of shrapnel that can’t be removed. The flesh may grow around it, but it will always be there. Sometimes it’ll feel like there’s nothing there at all but at others it rises to the surface and makes us hurt, but it never goes away." Llewellyn pushes a lock of hair behind Dylan’s ear to help avoid it getting damp, "we can only keep it clean and attempt to avoid letting it infect us.”  
  
“You must think all of this sounds stupid.”  
  
“I can’t really understand how it feels" Llewellyn wonders if, perhaps, that's some morbid advantage of not knowing your parents. Missing them is much more dfficult, "but if it hurts you then it's not stupid. It's okay and natural for us to feel pain. I just wish I knew what to say.” Llewellyn leans back to look at the patchwork of clouds in the sky. “If you're listening Mr and Mrs Kirkland, thank you for making Dylan. You'd be very proud of him. He's a good man.”  
  
“Llewellyn...” Dylan hiccups as he wipes at his eyes to try and stop the flow of tears. "Thank you."   
  
“As far as courtship goes and dancing. I don’t care if we never dance or if we never court. I’ll just be happy to be with you. We should think about it carefully before making that decision. So don’t worry. We’ll face it together like your parents did.” Llewellyn grins and pulls Dylan close, letting him sob the bards robe as much as he needs to. “I don’t think courting should be an unhappy thing.”  
  
“You’re right, but it still hurts.”  
  
“I know. It’s okay if it hurts. Everybody’s heart hurts at some point. It’s part of being alive. At least that’s what I’ve heard. So if you ever need a place to hurt then you can come to me and cry all you need to. I might even cry too.”  
  
Dylan laughs meekly it's a watery sound. “Adults shouldn’t cry. Aly told me that once.”  
  
“Then why do we have tear ducts?” Llewellyn wipes Dylan’s cheeks with a sleeve, “I just hope you feel better. If only a little.”  
  
“A little.” Dylan squirms where he sits. “Your shoulder is very bony, I’m sorry to say.”  
  
“I apologise.”  
  
Dylan lifts his head, scrubbing his eyes – puffed with red and bloodshot – with his knuckle. His grasp tightens on the bundle the tailor gave him, a heavy sounding sigh of relief rolling out of him. “Would you ever want to court with me, if the time came?”  
  
“Of course. Don’t you think we’d make a good pair?”  
  
“A very fine match.” Dylan chuckles; it’s weakened by his lamentations. “Although with your work and my finances it might be a bit difficult.”  
  
“No match is perfect, but that’s why it’s enjoyable to love someone. They keep you on your toes. Work or finance be damned.”  
  
Dylan throws his head back and laughs, more than he might otherwise have done. “You know, you’re different to anybody I ever met before. Which isn’t overly many by any stretch, mind.”  
  
“Compliment accepted. I think.”  
  
“You were right the sky really is beautiful all the way up here. I wonder how many great people sat right here and saw the same sky.”  
  
“Who knows? We might be the first.” Llewellyn absorbs the warm orange and vibrant pink as it clashes with blue over the outstretched view of Deva below. “It’s amazing how different things feel suddenly.  
  
“It does feel like the world is changing. I might write a poem about it.” Dylan stretches his arms out and cracks his back. “Did you mention you had a book of traditional dances?” He changes the subject and Llewellyn allows it.   
  
“I do, it’s in my master's library in his room. I sometimes pilfer the books from there and study them.”  
  
“Could I see it? I can learn the steps for when I need them.”  
  
“I’ll do you one better, you can borrow it. You must be careful with it, though, it’s a little old and fragile.” Llewellyn stands, his hand only breaking away from Dylan's very slowly.   
  
Choosing to leave Dylan to himself and his thoughts so he can take the time he needs Llewellyn drifts inside, venturing towards his master's room to collect the book he seeks. The room is warmer than it should be, the books in good condition and the bed left unmade for all these years. He gathers a few tomes of interest and leaves silently, feeling strange and uncomfortable all the way out into the sunlight. It warms his face.   
  
“This is the one.” Llewellyn places the book in Dylan's hands, the cover a deep red, embossed with an image of children dancing around a maypole. “It’s interesting, although a lot of the dances are Cymrian, most of it is quite relevent, if a little old.”  
  
“Thank you. It’ll be useful.” Dylan timidly opens the book and smiles at the waft of old paper and etchings of footprints and dancers costumes inside.  
  
“I imagine Michael might like something new to read so I’ll let him borrow a few of these less fragile books.” Llewellyn flicks through one. “This one is a book of family drama translated from the Norsemen and this one is a history of battles and warriors. I’m sure he’ll find something he’ll enjoy.”  
  
“Nothing too racy?”  
  
“Oh no, a little wordy but perfectly innocent. He’s a smart boy, I hope he’ll enjoy them. They’re not really for younger readers, but—“  
  
“He’ll have them read before you’re done handing them over.” Dylan studies the small pile, “that’s sweet of you.”  
  
“They’re no use just sitting on a shelf. Better to be in the hands of those hungry for words. He can have the pick of the bunch if he proves he can care for them.” Llewellyn grips Dylan’s hand and gives him a tug. “We should probably head back, we’ve been out longer than we expected and I imagine the governor wasn’t lying about sending the guards out here to find me.”  
  
Dylan’s grasp tightens as he allows Llewellyn to pull him to his feet and they begin the long walk home, conversation muted and hands full of books.  
  
They arrive back at the shop in decent time, sped along by their enjoyment. Entering the door with muted voices and laughter caused by a drunkenness on clean air. “I think I can smell the cooking. It’s ruined the atmosphere,” Llewellyn whispers with a wheezy laugh that he attempts to stifle.  
  
The laugh Dylan lets out is masked by his hand. “Don’t say that, we might end up in prison.”  
  
“Well, at least we can share a cell.”  
  
Dylan grins at the idea while flushing about it. His body rocking as if he’s pent up with energy. “Remember what you said before? I was wondering if it’d be okay to—“  
  
It takes a brief amount of thought to pinpoint the exact meaning, but once Llewellyn recalls it he can only nod placidly and hope his face doesn’t look too much like a berry.  
  
Dylan leans closer, resting his hand on Llewellyn’s cheek. Their noses need adjusting and more giggles need to be stifled but eventually Dylan kisses him, hesitant at first – a petal's touch –  Llewellyn tugs him closer, deepening their embrace.  
  
His first small touch of arse and Dylans hand resting on his rear scented with herbs awakens a strange lust filled heat they that share, one tinged with spices.  
  
Llewellyn’s first kiss smells of lavender.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
The first thing Alasdair notes when his brother and the bard return is Dylan's reddened cheeks and rumpled hair. The second, the way that his mouth keeps twitching, like he's struggling to hold back a grin, or laugh, or the nonsense babbling stream of chatter he finds almost impossible to dam when his emotions are running high.  
  
The third, fourth and fifth things he notes are that Dylan's left shoulder, elbow and hip are near perfectly aligned with the bard's right, touching lightly at each of their points.  
  
They huddle a little tighter when the prince hails them, stammering out their own greetings in return, and then equally fumbled thanks when he rises to resume his cooking. It's only when Dylan plonks himself down in the chair the prince has just vacated, his arms held out stiff and awkward in front of him, that Alasdair notices that they're both carrying books.  
  
"Llewellyn thought you might enjoy these," Dylan says, when the bard deposits his small stack in front of Michael. "Be careful with them, though. They're very old and very precious."  
  
Michael stiffens almost imperceptibly. "I'm always careful with books."  
  
"Not _always_." Dylan's mouth purses primly. "When you read Da's copy of the _Historia Brittonum_ , you'd scribbled rude words in the margins of half the pages before Aly noticed and took it off you, if you recall."  
  
"I was _eight_ ," Michael says, sounding mildly affronted. "And it was a really, really boring book. I have learnt a little better since then."  
  
"I hope so, otherwise you won't be allowed to borrow any more of Llew's collection. All right?"  
  
"All right," Michael says, sighing out the words in a put-upon manner. He picks up the topmost volume with exaggerated caution, opens it with the very tips of his fingers and thumb, and then immediately starts examining its first page.  
  
"And we've lost him," Dylan says, chuckling softly. He beams toothy gratitude up at the bard, who is hovering by the table looking anxious and ill at ease, then inclines his head in the direction of the seat next to his own.  
  
The bard quickly accepts the silent offer, scooting the chair closer to Dylan's as he does so. Their shoulders press together again as soon as he settles himself, and then Dylan bends his mouth close to the bard's ear, saying something that makes them both muffle giggles like small children caught misbehaving during a temple service.  
  
Neither one of them has acknowledged Alasdair's presence with so much as a glance.  
  
He coughs pointedly several times, and when Dylan finally looks his way, asks, "Would you like some nettle wine?"  
  
Dylan blinks at him very slowly, his brow furrowing. "I suppose a little bit couldn't hurt."  
  
"Yes, it could," Michael says without lifting his nose from his book. "Don't do it, Dyl. It tastes like dead things."  
  
"Turpentine," the prince puts in.  
  
"It's not that bad," Alasdair says hurriedly. It seems such a waste to pour the rest of the bottle away, even though he's not sure what else they could do with the revolting stuff if Dylan and the bard refuse to drink it. Except perhaps use it to clean their cutlery. "It's just got the tiniest hint of a lamp oil aftertaste."  
  
"It's a good job you've never had to serve behind the counter here, Aly," Dylan says. "You're a terrible salesman." He locks eyes with the bard again, and after receiving a minute shake of the head in return, concludes, "I think we'll give it a pass, if you don't mind."  
  
"Are you sure? We've all done our penance with it, and Francis says it probably won't keep if we don't finish it today."  
  
Dylan and the bard resume their whispered conversation before Alasdair's even finished getting his second sentence out. He fights down the desire to give them both a clip round the ear for their rudeness, funnelling all of his irritation into a growled complaint to Michael.  
  
Who is too absorbed with his reading to hear it, apparently.  
  
"Fine." Alasdair throws his hands up in disgust. "I'll just sit here and talk to myself, then, shall I?"  
  
"I could use your help, Aly," the prince calls out from his post by the stove. "If you have a moment spare."  
  
"I thought I was banned from having anything to do with the food?"  
      
There had been a minor – incredibly minor – cock-up with the carrots. Alasdair hadn't even thought it worth mentioning, the prince had vehemently disagreed once he found out, and as a result of the ensuing argument Alasdair was relegated to knife-sharpening and dish-wiping duties thereafter.  
  
"I'm not certain there is a wrong way to stir a pan. I'm sure you'll do perfectly fine."  
  
Despite his reassurances, the prince seems very reluctant to let go of his wooden spoon when Alasdair does get up from the table and try and take it from him, only relinquishing his hold at the last possible second when Alasdair's tugging threatens to overbalance him.  
  
He looks at the spoon mournfully for a moment, clearly already rueing his decision to concede the fight, and then his gaze flickers towards Dylan and the bard.  
  
"Your brother and Mr Walsh seem very preoccupied with one another," he says in an undertone.  
  
"Aye," Alasdair replies in kind. "I've never seen them like this before. I reckon they must have had a glass or two of something to drink themselves whilst they were out. Dyl always gets a bit odd when he's tipsy."  
  
"Oh, I don't think it's that." The prince's lips quirk upwards slightly. "I suspect they might have come to some sort of... understanding."  
  
"Really?" Alasdair studies them himself again. Takes in Dylan's dewy eyes, the way the bard curves his body against him as though he's frozen to his marrow and Dylan's the only source of heat in the room. He groans. "Fuck's sake, they're not going to be like this from now on, are they?"  
  
"Only for a little while, I imagine. Don't worry, they'll remember that the rest of the world exists soon enough."  
  
"I'm not worried," Alasdair snaps.  
  
"Of course not," the prince says in the sort of low, soothing tone Alasdair usually hears directed at restive animals. "Now, to the sauce."  
  
The sauce, it transpires, requires a very particular sort of stirring after all to prevent it from either congealing or exploding – Alasdair is somewhat sceptical about the latter claim, even though the prince had looked deadly earnest as he'd made it – which involves extremely careful and precise rotations of the spoon.  
  
It takes so much of Alasdair's concentration, in fact, to perform the slow, steady movements exactly as the prince had directed, that he has none to spare for any other thought until Michael appears at his elbow to announce that, "Dyl and Llewellyn are... having some sort of strange hand sex."  
  
The prince lets out a sharp bark of laughter. "In Gallia, we call that 'holding hands'," he says.  
  
"They're not just holding hands," Michael says, scowling. "Their fingers are... all over the place." He wriggles his own in demonstration. "It's horrifying."  
  
"Can't you just carry on reading your book and ignore them?" Alasdair asks.  
  
"I tried, but it didn't work, because I know it's still happening even if I can't see it." Michael shudders. "Can I hide over here with you two?"  
  
"It is a little too crowded here already as it is, _mon petit_ ," the prince says apologetically. "Though..." He pauses, one, long slim finger tapping a thoughtful rhythm against his chin, and then continues with: "I was thinking that it's a shame that we don't have proper glasses to drink our proper wine from. Is there somewhere nearby that might sell such a thing? If there is, I can give you the coin, and—"  
  
"I'll do it," Michael says, his face brightening with an eagerness that Alasdair has never once seen him display before when faced with an upcoming bout of exercise.  
  
"Excellent," the prince says, smiling broadly. "Perhaps you should accompany him, Aly? I would like at least a dozen wine glasses, if you can get them, and, properly packed, they may well be too heavy for Master Kirkland to carry. As you said before, I'm sure I'll be perfectly safe here with your brother to protect me."  
  
Alasdair wonders if the prince might have an ulterior motive in sending them away, especially as he seems determined to stick with him like a limpet otherwise, but the thought is only a brief, fleeting thing, and easily dismissed. The chance to stretch his legs and work up his appetite with a stroll before dinner is always a welcome one to him, at least. Escaping the heat of the stove and... whatever the hells it is the bard and his brother are engaged in for a while just makes the prospect all the sweeter.  
  
"If you think you can spare me..."  
  
"I'm sure I'll muddle along somehow," the prince says, springing to Alasdair's side in an instant and snatching the spoon out of his hand.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
"So," Michael says as soon as he and Alasdair step out onto the street, "I'm guessing Dyl and Llewellyn are courting now, then."  
  
"Francis thinks so." Alasdair shrugs. "But it seems a bit too quick to me. Dyl's always planned on courting the old-fashioned way, so he wouldn't want to kick it all off before the moon festival. I'm pretty sure it'll happen then, though."  
  
Michael nods vaguely, and then keeps his peace for the full length of Ashfield Street and a good half of Oakshaw. As they pass by Mr Price's haberdashery, he pipes up with: "What are we going to do when they get married?"  
  
"What do you mean?" Alasdair asks.  
  
"I was just thinking it'd get a bit cramped at home, with all four of us there."  
  
"There's been four of us there most of your life, Mikey, and we always managed all right, didn't we?"  
  
Alasdair becomes aware as he's saying the words that they neither sound nor feel right. It's a tight enough squeeze for three in the apothecary, at times, and they get under each others' feet more often than not. Newlyweds, he supposes, would want a great deal more privacy than their close quarters could possibly provide.  
  
Dylan's relationship with the bard had always seemed like an extremely simple proposition to Alasdair – his addition to Dylan's life would make his brother happy, and thus he supported it wholeheartedly. He's never really thought too deeply about what might come _after_. About what might change.  
  
If he's honest with himself, he had never truly believed anything would come of it. Dylan has pronounced himself in love countless times over his twenty-seven years, and every single time, it's come to naught but the occasional longing look and the penning of a new poem or two.  
  
And if he's brutally honest with himself, he'd presumed he and Dylan would live together in the apothecary until they were both too decrepit to make it up and down the stairs on their own anymore, whereupon they'd go and impose themselves on Michael or one of Arthur and Gabriella's children for the rest of their days.  
  
He suddenly feels very unsteady, as though his entire world has just wobbled a little on its axis.  
  
"I don't think it'd be like living with Art," Michael says. "I think it'd be... weird, I guess. Maybe Dyl will go and live at the Bard's Hall, instead?"  
  
"Maybe," Alasdair says hollowly. He doesn't even want to contemplate what the apothecary might be like without Dylan living in it.  
  
"I don't want to live there. It's too fucking creepy. I'll stay at home with you, if he does. Or" – Michael smiles crookedly – "perhaps you could stay on at the palace instead, as the prince's guard. Do you think there'd be job there for me, too?"  
  
Despite not quite being able to summon up an answering smile for his brother, Alasdair finds himself chuckling, regardless. "Francis would probably invent one for you even if there wasn't," he says.  
  
Michael kicks out at a discarded apple core, sending it bouncing and skittering across the cobblestones ahead of them. Then, with his eyes still averted down towards his boots, says, "He really likes you, doesn't he?"  
  
"Aye, I think so," Alasdair says, because it seems pointless to obfuscate. The prince had probably engaged in his usual staring at some point during the afternoon, and he's hardly subtle about it. Michael's an observant lad, he would have noticed.  "Or he likes _looking_ at me, at least."  
  
" _You're_ not going to get married, are you?"  
  
The question's so unexpected and ridiculous that it shocks a deep, almost painful burst of belly laughter from Alasdair. "To him?" he says when he catches his breath again. "I very much doubt it, Mikey. Things like that don't happen outside those crappy romances you and Dyl read."  
  
"I wasn't thinking of anyone in particular." Michael frowns. "I meant in general. It's not something you'd want to do, is it?"  
  
And the answer to _that_ question tiptoes far too close to a truth Alasdair has never admitted to anyone, so he swallows hard, and then lies, "Naw, not really my sort of thing, you ken."  
  
"Good," Michael says. "Everything... Everything just seems to be changing so quickly all of a sudden, but at least I can count on you staying the same. Right, Aly?"  
  
"Right," Alasdair echoes dully, thankful that there are no more than a few short steps between them and Mrs Hall's glass shop now, and thus he doesn't need to manufacture an excuse to cut their conversation short.  
  
He can only hope that Michael gets distracted enough by their task within that he forgets to resume it afterwards.


End file.
